


Loose Lips Sink Ships

by on_the_wing



Series: Virusverse [1]
Category: Starfighter (Comic), Starfighter Eclipse
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, Deimos Kicks Butt, Dubious Consent, Get Ethos Laid 2018, Look Mom I Rewrote Eclipse Again, M/M, Navis Gone Wild, Praxis Shock Face, Song Lyrics, Turning Our Cinnamon Roll Into a Sinnamon Roll, Using Appropriate Amounts of Lube, background Abel/Cain, background Helios/Selene, background Phobos/Porthos, implied Abel/Ethos, implied Hayden/so many people, implied Keeler/Phobos, implied Morena/lots of people, implied RBG/his fighter, so much dubcon I'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-09-21 04:31:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17036711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/on_the_wing/pseuds/on_the_wing
Summary: The mission to the derelict proceeds without incident, but Ethos seems...different somehow.





	1. It's Oh So Quiet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GoodyearTheShippyCat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoodyearTheShippyCat/gifts).



> Happy holidays to the best trash panda! May you rummage through the overturned shipping bins of the coming year and find a thousand juicy rarepairs. <3

“We’ll be fine,” Praxis assured Ethos as they stepped out into the hollow darkness. “Just stay calm and do what you came here to do. I’ll be right here with you.” His voice sounded tinny over the intercom, and a little too cheerful. Cheerful was not Praxis’ color.  
  
Ethos sighed, then immediately felt guilty. “It’s okay, Praxis. I’m not scared.” He really wasn’t. Everyone else seemed petrified—including Praxis, who was clearly trying to reassure himself as well—and he didn’t understand why. They’d scanned the derelict long before entry and there were no signs of life, no dangerous radiation levels, no signals that might indicate electronic or robotic activity. He doubted that the derelict would contain organic chemistry pop quizzes, chorus auditions, blind dates, or eels. It might possibly contain failure and disgrace, but it was unlikely to be the failure and disgrace of anyone on the Kepler, and even if it was, it would probably take a while to manifest and they’d have plenty of chances to avert it.

What it most likely _would_ contain is fascinating, dense, and chewy data in a new language that would give him a break from the monotony of the Colteron military’s lingua franca (they knew from artifacts on captured ships that there were at least six Colteron native languages, but he’d never been allowed to work on those). He was also going to see the interior of an alien ship for the first time! The lack of proper lighting was frustrating, but hopefully they’d be able to fix that soon. Maybe they’d be able to infer something important about the species that created it from the interior design and furniture…maybe he’d even get enough material for a paper! Not that he’d be allowed to publish it in a civilian journal, but a boy can dream.

They trekked slowly through the wide corridor, adhesive boots clomping and sucking at the floor; Morena and Vega aimed their flashlights at the floor just ahead and far ahead, respectively, while Praxis cycled his around and Ethos just aimed his in whatever direction seemed most interesting. The video recorder in his helmet was running but there wasn’t anything interesting to see so far, other than the rounded, ribbed ceiling that made him feel like he was walking through the petrified corpse of a mighty beast. He’d been hoping for labels by the doors at least, but there was nothing but a simple geometric pattern. At least the size and shape of the doors gave him information—it told him that the species it was created for stood upright and was of approximately human height and width.

“No bodies,” said Praxis after a few minutes.  
  
“No heads either,” Morena joked.  
  
“No mess,” Vega mused. “No signs of struggle.”

“Phobos and Porthos are probably looking for the supply rooms and the crew’s quarters,” Ethos suggested. “That might tell us whether they left in a hurry, or on purpose.” And coincidentally would also reveal more about their material culture. He was so jealous! Phobos and Porthos weren’t even interested in alien culture, but they got to roam the whole ship while he was stuck marching straight down to the engine room to watch the techs turn the power on. They probably wouldn’t even need him to do anything! Well, at least he was lucky enough to be assigned to go at all. Maybe if they had some extra time his team could go check out the crew’s quarters. Who knows, maybe they had magazines or comic books stashed in their bunks. Alien comic books!!! _Whoa there, cowboy_ , he told himself. _Alien pinup posters!_ the excitable side of his mind insisted. _Just!!! Think!!!!_

 _“_ Are you all right, Ethos?” Praxis nudged him.  
  
“What? I’m fine!”  
  
“You were just breathing funny is all.”  
  
“I was not!”  
  
“It’s fine. We’re all nervous.” He patted Ethos’ shoulder in a way that was simultaneously infuriating and—humiliatingly—arousing. Ethos really needed to find a boyfriend. Or girlfriend. Personfriend. Whatever. At this point even a Colteron would be a viable option. Actually kind of an intriguing op— _GOD STOP IT SELF_.

Sure, it was great that Praxis had finally stopped ignoring Ethos while openly mooning after his best friend, but the solution had turned out to be almost worse than the problem. It had been incredibly disorienting the last few months to have Deimos living in their room, to see his stiff, formal fighter suddenly become a sensual and sexual being. They did manage to avoid full-on humping in Ethos’ waking presence, but they seemed perpetually determined to maintain physical contact with as much surface area as possible; even when they weren’t touching they were always watching each other on the slant, bracing against some taut invisible rubber band trying to pull them back together. At least two or three times a week, Ethos woke in the middle of the night to panting and soft groans and the muted slap of fabric on skin. He usually pretended to be asleep, because it’s just as embarrassing to be caught seeing as it is to be caught doing, but sometimes he couldn’t stand it and coughed pointedly to make them quiet down. If he was lucky, they’d actually stop; more often, they just waited a few minutes and started again.  
  
Possibly as a counteractive measure, Praxis always insisted on speaking to Ethos as if they were all in a meeting with the commanders, sitting prim and proper and five feet apart. It created a special kind of cognitive dissonance when he did this while absentmindedly sliding his hand under Deimos’ shirt as Deimos stretched in just the right way to grind his ass into Praxis’ lap. Sometimes Ethos caught Deimos’ gaze and there was a tiny glint there that made him wonder if Deimos—unlike Praxis—knew exactly what he was doing.

He prayed with every ounce of his being to whatever forces might give a fig for his pathetic mortal life, prayed that Deimos couldn’t somehow reach into his head and pull out the raw and wriggling fact that Ethos had been trying to work up the nerve to ask him out before this all started. If anyone could do that, it was probably Deimos.

Anyway. Here’s the engine room! Morena made for the terminal (no chairs! interesting) while Vega and Ethos nosed around for a manual power switch. There were a lot of mysterious hanging tubes and cords and curvy pipes to poke through, interspersed with the occasional cryptic button-studded panel. This room was a lot grubbier than the hallway, and showed signs of damage; a couple of the panels were broken, and what looked like broken glass floated in festive sparkling shards around the room. Incongruously but appropriately, a mop bucket hovered in one corner, dry as a bone. _An alien mop bucket!!!_ Ethos also noticed some dark stains on the floor, and, stooping down to look, found tiny solidified puddles of some thick, tarry, organic-looking substance. For lack of a better vehicle—why didn’t the commander let them bring any containers with them?—he scraped some of it onto a shard of glass and then sandwiched another piece of glass over it to create makeshift slides.

“I’m not finding a power switch over here,” Morena announced. “Unless it’s keyed to specific fingerprints or pheromone signatures or something.”  
  
“All right, we’ll keep looking,” said Vega.

Ethos thought, _if I were deciding where to put the manual power switch, where would I put it? I would put it somewhere really easy to get at, especially in the event of a power failure. Like right next to the door._ He clomped past a startled Praxis and back to the entrance, aiming his flashlight at the side of the door they hadn’t checked yet. A panel! And the buttons on it seemed intact. The biggest one was right at the bottom all by itself, and although it was hard to tell color in the dim light, it looked reddish. He pressed it.

“Ow!” A needlelike, fiery pain shot through the pad of his finger, and he jerked it away, reflexively trying to pop it in his mouth but hitting the face plate of the helmet instead. Suddenly Morena cried out happily as the lights came on with a sudden deep thrum. They were a dull orange—the color of the crew’s native sun, maybe?  
  
“Ethos! What happened? Are you all right?” Praxis was suddenly beside him, batting away floating pieces of glass.

“I’m fine, something just poked my finger is all.” He leaned closer to look, and tried pressing the button again, this time using one end of the glass/tar sandwich. He ignored the indignant cries as the power went off again, and focused on the button. _There **is** a pin there!_ A very short pin, or maybe just part of a regular pin (of course Ethos didn’t want to assume a standard length for alien pins). It had somehow become deeply wedged into the narrow space between the button and the surrounding panel, so that you couldn’t see it until the button depressed. Maybe the button was loose and needed something to hold it in place? Or maybe it was someone’s idea of a practical joke? He pressed the button again, and the lights returned.

“Sheesh,” Morena muttered from the console. The lights flickered off a second time, then flickered on again. “Oh, you know what? This button here controls the power too—you just have to drag your finger down it inside of pressing.”  
  
“Huh,” said Vega, crowding up behind her. “Oh hey, it looks pretty normal except for the weird-ass writing.”

Praxis took Ethos’ hand rather forcefully and examined it. “You’re losing air. Try pressing down on the hole with your thumb.”  
  
Ethos indignantly retrieved his hand. “I’ll press down on it with this glass—it’s harder.” He hoped Praxis couldn’t see him blushing.  
  
“You shouldn’t touch the broken glass—you probably cut yourself on it.”  
  
“Praxis, I am not _five years old_. This is a _scientific sample_ and I am being _careful_.”

“What I can’t find is—” Morena dropped to her knees and disappeared partway under the console. “The right kind of port. Oh here we are—shit! Fuck.”  
  
“You okay?” Vega glanced down.  
  
“Yeah, I’m fine. There’s so much fucking glass down here, it’s clinging to my gloves.”  
  
Praxis looked meaningfully at Ethos.  
  
“Do you need some sealant?” Vega asked.  
  
“Nah, don’t bother, it’s a tiny hole and we should be out of here in a few minutes.”  
  
“Ethos needs some,” Praxis called out.

“I do NOT—ugh. It’s going to make my glove—Praxis, please. FINE then.” He allowed his fighter to squeeze an obscenely large glob of sealant onto the fingerpad of his glove, even though he was doing it all wrong and the techs were going to have to scrape it all off when they repaired it and they were going to assume Ethos was the one who messed it up like this, and sure okay he did mess it up some but not _that_ much. Except he couldn’t even get his own fighter to leave the thing alone, so it was all his fault anyway. _Abel could’ve stopped **his** fighter from—no, don’t think like that_.

 _I shouldn’t be so mean to Praxis. He’s just trying to help. He just wants to make up for all that time when he was avoiding me._ He took a deep breath and looked up at Praxis. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. I know you’re just doing your job.”  
  
Praxis nodded seriously. “No problem.”

Ethos decided to go look over the techs’ shoulders, so he could at least learn something about the new system even if he wasn’t needed. They seemed to be having no problems, and soon the ship was thrumming and whirring around them in an almost friendly way. He briefly considered sneaking out to go look for something more interesting, but he knew Praxis was watching, and Praxis would never let him disobey orders like that. _Boooo_ -ring. Oh well. He still had his goo to analyze when he got back; biology wasn’t his specialty but he knew someone in the med bay who would be interested. Tomorrow was his birthday, so this would be his birthday present to himself!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter titles are all song titles, because why not. This one's by Bjork.
> 
> As you may notice, the science in this is absolute garbage, like, Dr. Who-level timey-wimey handwaving. I barely remembered to turn off the gravity in the derelict. Please forgive me. 
> 
> SF Discord members can make a drinking game out of this if you want—take a shot whenever someone does their signature Discord emoji face. :D


	2. Don't Stop Me Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the best-laid plans of mice and men gang kinda agley.

“Be quiet, everybody,” Athos called out, looking up from his phone. “Praxis says they’re almost here! YO! SHUT IT!”  
  
They ignored him. Deimos, curled up on the top bunk ready to DJ on Praxis’ laptop, played an earsplitting cymbal smash, smirking at the assorted yelps of pain. It seemed to have worked, though.  
  
“I’m turning the lights off now,” Athos announced. A hush fell over the room, broken only by the occasional shuffle or cough. Somebody farted, setting off a chorus of masculine giggles. Athos couldn’t smell anything, so he suspected it may have been a fake for comedic effect.  
  
Before the laughter subsided, the door whirred open and light flooded in. “—and Seacole says it has proteins from animal saliva as well as vegetable mat—”  
  
“SURPRISE,” shouted everyone (except Deimos) with unholy gusto. Praxis jumped so high his head hit the doorframe, although granted that wasn’t very high considering how absurdly tall he was.  
  
Next to him, Ethos covered his mouth, then patted Praxis’ arm in concern before turning back to the company packed like sardines into their room. “Wow! This is amazing! I had no idea! You all are so nice!”  
  
Huh. Athos couldn’t think how Ethos could possibly have missed their preparations. Athos was a friendly and—he liked to think—popular guy, but it wasn’t like he usually spent a lot of time talking to Praxis, much less the elusive and vaguely alarming Deimos. Just getting the ingredients for the cake had taken two days of complex negotiations and some outright theft. It was stressful but kind of fun, like a spy mission.  
  
They sang happy birthday, and then some of the navis sang, “Joyeux anniversaire,” and then most of the fighters sang, “Let pedestrians run clumsily across the puddles.” Someone started into, “Zum Geburstag Viel Gluck,” but at that point Deimos hit play and the opening line of Queen’s “Don’t Stop Me Now” rang out across the room. “ _Tonight, I’m gonna have myself a real good time_ ….”  
  
Somebody grumbled about classical music, but Athos started handing out the booze from the party stash under the bunk and Ethos cut the cake and no one was grumbling anymore, not even Phobos, who’d been forced by overcrowding to sit on Porthos’ lap. Several navigators were sitting on their fighters’ laps, too. Athos imagined Porthos sitting on _his_ lap and snorted.  
  
“ _I’m a rocket ship on my way to Mars/on a collision course/I am a satellite, I'm out of control/I’m a sex machine, ready to reload/Like an atom bomb about to oh, oh, oh, oh, oh explode…_ ”  
  
“Oi, Deimos, turn that down!”  
  
Deimos sighed noiselessly, but complied. He left the laptop on the top bunk and climbed down to drape himself across Praxis’ lap. Praxis wrapped his arms around him and leaned down to kiss his cheek, and Deimos’ face cleared. A couple of people swarmed up the ladder to take his place on the top bunk.  
  
The door chimed, and when they opened it Encke’s menacing shadow loomed in the doorway, Keeler’s just behind him. Everyone froze, contraband cake and vodka in hand. “We heard there was a party going on here,” Encke intoned, expressionlessly surveying the room.  
  
Silence. Eyes darted back and forth.  
  
“Well, is there room for two more?” Keeler chirped. An audible breath escaped the party, and the people nearest the door edged aside to make room. There wasn’t much left, so they had to crowd through the doorway until the door closed and then slide down to lean against it. Was Keeler going to sit on Encke’s lap? No, he sat on the floor, knees drawn up. Encke remained standing, but Keeler tugged on his arm and whispered something to him, and he slid down as well to sit crosslegged next to Keeler. “My, it’s crowded in here!” the lead navigator commented, shifting closer to his fighter until his leg was bent over Encke’s knee. Athos could see beads of sweat beginning to form on Encke’s brow.  
  
Athos waited until the company was pleasantly sugared up and tipsy and mostly not kicking each other anymore, keeping a special eye on how Ethos was doing. He and Deimos and Praxis had all agreed that Ethos needed to ~~get laid~~ put himself out there more, and that the birthday party would be an excellent place to start. It suddenly occurred to him that they should have asked Ethos himself if he agreed, but Ethos seemed perfectly comfortable so far. He was enthroned on the only desk chair with his feet propped up on Vicks’ lap, cradling a bottle of plum vodka in the crook of one elbow and chatting happily.  
  
Athos clapped his hands for silence. “Yo! Everybody! It’s time! It’s time to play…Spin the Bottle!”  
  
Ethos’ eyes widened slightly. Cheers, laughter, a little scornful grumbling from Phobos’ direction. Encke rocketed to his feet muttering something about paperwork, but Keeler dragged him down again, whispering in his ear. Praxis even surfaced from his extended scuba dive into Deimos’ neck _thanks guys for making me run this whole thing myself._  
  
“I’m sure you all know the rules. The birthday boy gets first spin. The people doing the smooching go into the center—I’m sure you all can manage to move your feet for that long. Kissing on the mouth only, no wussing out. Got it?”  
  
“Yeah!”  
  
“No!”  
  
“Yes you do, Lo Duca, shush.”  
  
Athos laid an empty bottle down in the center and gestured to Ethos.  
  
“E-thos! E-thos! E-thos!” chanted several people.  
  
Athos was about to tell them to shut up, but Ethos didn’t seem at all intimidated; on the contrary, there was a fierce glint in his eye. He stepped carefully over Vicks to kneel down in the center, took a swig of plum vodka, and spun.  
  
The bottle spun, skittered to the side, bounced off Cain’s foot, and finally curved to a halt. Phobos’ nostrils flared.  
  
“Pho-bos! Pho-bos! Pho-bos!”  
  
“Okay, that’s enough, people! No more chanting!” Athos shouted. He could just feel the entire party sliding slowly but inevitably out of his control. Maybe he should start drinking too if chaos was inevitable.  
  
Phobos reluctantly maneuvered his way out of Porthos’ lap and into the center. He waited, lips pursed more in disapproval than in invitation.  
  
Ethos swallowed, then leaned forward and gave Phobos a quick, hesitant peck on the mouth. Athos didn’t blame him; Phobos probably had corrosive acid for saliva, and even if he didn’t there was giant, hulking Porthos to consider. Porthos just looked amused, though. He was actually not that bad, especially once you got him away from Phobos.  
  
“Awww.”  
  
“Boo!”  
  
“You can do better than that!” Cain opined.  
  
Ethos narrowed his eyes. He shuffled closer, then sank his fingers into Phobos’ hair, pulling him into a deep, slow, sensuous kiss. Phobos squeaked and his eyes flew open wider. For a moment he seemed frozen, but then his hands began to move almost of their own accord, settling lightly on Ethos’ shoulders, and he returned the kiss with increasing fervor. Ethos’ hands slid down his neck to his back and showed no signs of stopping, and Athos made a hasty executive decision. “Ohhhh-kay, next spin!”  
  
Porthos cleared his throat. “The bottle was pointing at me, too.”  
  
Phobos whirled around to glare at him, but Ethos answered thoughtfully, “Well, it wouldn’t be fair to leave you out, then.” He scooted over to Porthos and knelt in front of him, but Porthos pulled him down sideways onto his lap and dipped him, firmly and thoroughly exploring his mouth. Ethos’ eyelids sank down and he clawed for balance, wrapping his arms around the other navigator’s muscular neck.  
  
Porthos finally surfaced. “It’s your turn,” he pointed out to Phobos. “Don’t mind us.” Ethos lunged up to catch his mouth, and Porthos dipped him down again, extracting a soft sigh.  
  
Phobos’ pretty face contorted, and for a moment Athos was afraid he was going to throw one of his fits. “Fine,” he spat. “I won’t.” He grabbed the bottle and spun it violently, hissing in horror when it finally stopped. “Not _you!_ ”  
  
Abel looked frankly terrified. “Oh um, you don’t have to—I’m sure you could just spin it again.”  
  
“Boooo,” shouted a couple of people. “That’s cheating!”  
  
“Or you could kiss _me_ ,” Cain suggested with a lazy smirk. “The bottle _was_ pointing—”  
  
“Shut up, Cain,” Phobos seethed. “Just get over here, Abel, so I don’t have to go near your disgusting fighter at least.”  
  
Abel climbed out of Cain’s lap, whirling around to swat him for groping his ass on the way up. He faced Phobos resolutely.  
  
Phobos glared at him, huffing out a sharp puff of air through his teeth. He glanced back at Porthos and Ethos, still locked in their increasingly lurid version of a vintage movie kiss, then grabbed Abel by the back of the head and crushed their mouths together. Cheers erupted, getting louder when one of Phobos’ hands slid down to knead Abel’s ass.  
  
“All right, you’ve had long enough,” Cain snarled, rearing up to grab his navigator’s arm. “Spin, princess. Unless you want me to.”  
  
“Don’t tell me what to do,” Abel flared, and kissed Phobos again. Once he decided he’d defied Cain long enough, he pulled back and picked up the bottle.  
  
Phobos snapped his fingers at Porthos, and he gently eased Ethos off his lap. Ethos peered into Phobos’ angry face. “Do you want another kiss? That way you get the last word.”  
  
“Don’t tell me what I get.” Phobos glared, then reeled toward him. “Oh, fine.”  
  
_Ethos is certainly having fun_ , Athos thought. _I’m glad, but should he be having quite_ this _much fun? It just seems odd somehow. Then again I’ve never seen him at a party before—maybe he has a different persona for parties._  
  
Abel chose that moment to spin, and fate’s decision rested on....Helios. It wasn’t even unclear this time; Selene was wedged up close to him but wasn’t sitting in his lap, probably in effort to hold onto his dignity. Helios made a move to get up, but Selene grabbed his knee. “Seriously?”  
  
“But...the bottle pointed at me. That’s the way the game works. Why didn’t you tell me before if you didn’t want us to play?”  
  
Selene was already climbing to his feet and shoving his way toward the door. “Have fun,” he spat. “But don’t bother coming back tonight.” Was he about to cry? _Shit. Maybe this was a bad idea_.  
  
“Selene, come on,” Helios protested. “I don’t have to do it if you—” But Selene had already pushed past Encke(!) and disappeared out the door.  
  
There was a moment of awkward silence.  
  
“Maybe I should just spin again—” Abel began.  
  
“No!” Helios turned back with a mulish look on his face. “If I’m going to get punished for it I might as well do it.”  
  
“Are you sure?”  
  
“Yeah! Let’s do it.” He lurched into the center.  
  
“Okay,” Abel said doubtfully, and leaned forward to give Helios a tentative peck on the lips.  
  
“Aww come on!” someone called out. “Give ‘im a real one.”  
  
Abel looked at him for confirmation, but Helios abruptly pulled back. “I—I don’t think I should be doing this. Sorry.” He climbed to his feet and carefully picked his way out.  
  
“I guess it’s my turn again!” Ethos said brightly. He launched himself out of the desk chair and took the bottle from Abel’s unresisting hand. Praxis frowned and whispered something to Deimos, who shrugged and shifted position on his lap with what looked like an unnecessary amount of wiggling.  
  
Ethos spun the bottle, and it came to rest on….Encke! The party sucked in its collective breath.  
  
Encke’s usually stolid face froze in horror, and Keeler preemptively grabbed him to keep him from fleeing, murmuring something that contained the words “morale” and “approachability.”  
  
The lead fighter glanced at him dubiously, but took a deep breath and got up on his knees, announcing, “This is completely optional and there will be no repercussions if you refuse.”  
  
“Why would I do that?” Ethos blinked up at him.  
  
“Um—if you didn’t want to.”  
  
“Well, I do, so don’t worry about it. And so does everyone else here. The navigators talk about you all the time, you know.” He winked, then spared Encke the burden of answering by twining his arms around his neck and kissing him with slow but increasingly vigorous enthusiasm. The party lost its fear and cheered again, and Ethos wriggled even closer to Encke, trying to hook a leg around him. Keeler watched with a frozen, overly-wide smile on his face.  
  
Encke returned the kiss for a couple more seconds, and then politely disentangled himself as if he were trying to unwind an overly affectionate python.  
  
“Here, I’ll spin for you,” Ethos said with an uncharacteristically impish smile. “That way everybody knows whoever it lands on wasn’t your decision.” When the bottle slowed, he leaned toward the center of the circle, placing his hand in its path in such a way that it was forced to point at Keeler when it stopped. “What a coincidence!” He grinned and scooted back to his chair.  
  
_He has great reflexes for a drunk person_ , mused Athos.  
  
Encke and Keeler exchanged startled glances. “I—um, you don’t have to—” Encke began.  
  
Keeler sighed. “I know. Just humor him, okay?” He reached out a hand, and Encke pulled him up and into the center.  
  
They looked at each other, hesitating, still holding hands. Keeler drifted closer and lifted the other hand to cup the back of Encke’s head. He whispered something that looked like, “You okay?” and Encke nodded. Was he blushing? Keeler was definitely blushing, although that could be the vodka.  
  
After a moment Keeler leaned forward and closed the space between their lips. Encke responded tentatively at first, then suddenly clutched Keeler like a drowning man, smothering him in ardent kisses.  
  
Someone pestered Athos for more vodka, and then he had to climb over to (gently) smack a navigator who was throwing things from the top bunk and (quietly) yell at a fighter who was sticking his feet under people’s butts (“I don’t care how cold they are—go put some more socks on!”). He was beginning to lose track of who kissed who and whose turn it was. By now the assembled party was drunk and loud enough that most of them weren’t really paying attention either, unless the bottle actually ended up on them. Worst of all, he’d been all over the room and was usually behind someone, so he hadn’t even had a turn of his own yet!  
  
His fellow party planners continued to be no help at all; in fact, Deimos had turned completely around to straddle Praxis, and Athos would not take any bets that he wasn’t secretly some kind of face-sucking monster. Even Encke and Keeler had left a few minutes ago, and from the way they were looking at each other, they were probably going off somewhere to do the same.  
  
Ethos was getting restless too. He tried to twirl back and forth in his chair, but kept running up against obstacles; he didn’t have the bottle anymore and the cake was pretty much gone, so he had nothing to do with his hands but play with the hair of the people sitting immediately below him, and they’d begun to duck away.  
  
Abruptly he stretched out his foot and stepped on the spinning bottle so that it pointed toward him. “Oh look! It’s my turn.” Ethos waded though to the center and unsteadily turned around to drag Vicks in with him, falling back on his butt in the process. Was Vicks even the one spinning? Athos couldn’t even tell at this point.  
  
“Whoaaa,” Vicks slurred. He somehow managed to help Ethos up onto his knees, even though Ethos was trying to pull him down on top of him instead. Vicks looked a lot drunker than Ethos, but he was a relatively dignified drunk _UNLIKE SO MANY IN HERE._ “Careful.”  
  
“I’m always careful,” Ethos told him. “Careful is my middle name. Careful Whispers is my theme song. The Care Bears are like, really reckless compared to me.”  
  
“Umm…okay?”  
  
“You are perfectly safe in my careful, careful hands.” He demonstrated. Athos didn’t know about careful, but Ethos’ hands did look pretty deliberate about what they were doing.  
  
“Okay…oh!”  
  
“Why do you wear those coveralls? They’re so inconvenient.” He trailed a finger down Vicks’ chest.  
  
“They’re…the uniform? Um, I don’t mean to be rude, but aren’t we sposta just do a kiss and then spin ag—”  
  
Ethos cut him off in the most efficient way possible. The kiss deepened, and he pushed down the flailing Vicks until they were sprawled half on top of the nearest bystanders. He sank his teeth into Vicks’ quivering lower lip, and one hand fumbled for the zipper of his coveralls, yanking it down as far as he could and pulling the upper half down off Vicks’ knobby, vulnerable shoulders.  
  
Athos made another executive decision: this party was officially over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lo Duca is Bazin’s fighter—it was either that or “Doniol-Valcroze." He was extremely confused at the initial briefing. And for those who might not be aware, "Bazin" is the most popular fanon name for Random Background Guy (RBG), the navigator who thinks Abel is talking to him in the hallway in Chapter Two.
> 
> Even though this is Eclipse, the Cain in this story is webcomic Cain. Eclipse Cain would have had a panic attack and run back to his bunk after spending three seconds in that crowded room, and I don’t blame him.
> 
> Ominous birthday-related cultural notes: According to the internet, Russians may celebrate a birthday several days later, but never celebrate the day before, because on the day before their birthday the person is “weakened, vulnerable to diseases and accidents.” The French happy birthday song is sung at birthdays, but it’s also sung when something goes wrong in a public place.
> 
> EDIT: I just realized that the party booze is stashed in the same place where Deimos and Praxis keep their lube and assorted other...items. I hope no one got a nasty surprise ahahaha.


	3. Love Is A Stranger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ethos isn't ready to go to bed. OR IS HE?

“Okay, that’s enough.” Praxis lurched to his feet and helped Athos peel Ethos off his victim (Vicktim?). “Time for bed.”  
  
“Mmh, I think you’re right,” Ethos slurred, slumping against him and somehow managing to grope his ass.  
  
“That’s NOT what I meant. Wow, you really are drunk.”  
  
“Nawwww, I’m just relaxed.” There was an unnervingly mischievous glint in his round blue eyes.  
  
“All right everyone, time to go,” Praxis said loudly. “Ow! Ethos, stop that. Athos, Deimos, could you—?” He indicated the party guests, who unsurprisingly had continued to drink, talk, smear cake crumbs into the floor, and spin the bottle.  
  
“I guess he had a good time—that’s what matters.” Athos got ready to shoo people away, but some of them were already climbing to their feet, protesting and rubbing their tailbones. “Deimos, you don’t have to _kick_ them.”  
  
Deimos blinked at him, then smiled and delivered another savage kick to the butt of a sluggish fighter.  
  
Porthos, the next in line, jumped up and pulled Phobos to his feet. “Ugh,” Phobos complained, brushing off his clothes. “Maybe I shouldn’t have let Deimos sleep _here_ every night. He’s become so uncivilized. Figures that…” He trailed off, seeing that neither Ethos nor Praxis (or Deimos, for that matter) was listening. “Come on Porthos, let’s go.”  
  
Athos and Deimos finally managed to herd the remaining guests out the door and pick up the worst of the assorted party debris. “I guess I’ll be going then,” said Athos. “Happy birthday, Ethos,” he called across the room. “Good night!”  
  
Ethos was sitting on the bottom bunk, playing with Praxis’ hair as he knelt on the floor trying to get Ethos’ boots off. The birthday boy waved cheerfully at Athos, then turned his attention back to his fighter. “I like this position,” he announced.  
  
Praxis looked up, face frozen in alarm.  
  
“It’s nice to be taller than you for once,” he continued, swinging his foot playfully to evade Praxis’ grasp.  
  
“Ethos, please. Just let me take your boot off. You’re going to be very unhappy in the morning if I let you wear your boots in bed.”  
  
Ethos snort-giggled. “You have really soft hair. I never noticed that before. Actually I don’t think I ever touched it before. Why didn’t I?”  
  
“Because you were sober?” Praxis muttered.  
  
“I’m totally sober right now. Mostly. Pretty much.” His hand wandered down the back of Praxis’ neck, then delicately up again; he seemed fascinated by the soft hissing sound that the short-cropped hairs made as he rubbed them against the grain.  
  
Praxis took a deep breath and finally managed to pull off the first boot. He reached for the second one more slowly. _It’s not wrong to like this, is it? It’s not as if it’s sexual._  
  
Ethos giggled again, and Praxis looked up to see Deimos on his hands and knees, scrubbing something out of the floor. He really was a bit obsessive about cleanliness, but Praxis suspected that the gently swaying rump was a hint to him to get Ethos tucked away and come to bed. He remembered the way it felt on his lap, and drew in a hissing breath.  
  
Ethos chose that moment to brush his hands over Praxis’ ears, and he jerked back out of reach, yanking at the second boot. He ignored the quiet “awww” and tugged on the covers. “Come on. Time to get in bed.”  
  
“Are you coming too?”  
  
“After I brush my teeth.” Praxis ignored the double—triple?—entendre. “Come on, get in. ETHOS. There you go.” He tucked in his tipsy navigator, narrowly avoiding Ethos’ grab for his head.  
  
“Aww, I want a goodnight kiss.”  
  
“I’ll blow you one—oh jeez. Not like that. Here, if you promise not to grab me I’ll kiss your forehead, okay? Do you promise?”  
  
Ethos nodded.  
  
Praxis bent down to kiss his forehead, but Ethos quickly jerked his chin back and lunged up to plant a kiss on his lips. “ETHOS.”  
  
“I didn’t grab you!”  
  
“Good night, Ethos.”  
  
“Good night.” Ethos actually closed his eyes and turned over—he must be really tired. Praxis exchanged a glance with the quietly smirking Deimos and tiptoed to the bathroom.  
  
Safely behind the closed door, he laughed under his breath as he washed his face. Who knew Ethos would be so flirty when he got a little booze in him? _I hope he isn’t too embarrassed in the morning. Or too hungover. I’ll have to make sure he doesn’t drink this much next time, if he even wants to drink again. Funny, though, I don’t remember actually seeing him drink that much. He must be a lightweight._  
  
He squeezed out the toothpaste, ran a little water over the electric toothbrush, and turned it on. The hum was comforting, and he let his mind wander for a while. Who was he kidding? His mind didn’t wander, it ran right to Deimos’ ass—the way it looked in a flight suit, the way it felt in his hands, the soft but demanding sound he always made when Praxis slipped the tip of his finger inside him. _Please, let Ethos be asleep by the time I get out of the bathroom._ Maybe they should go somewhere else, though—he wanted to throw Deimos up against the wall and make him claw its smooth surface, make him shout out loud.  
  
Wait, what was that? A strange whine. _It’s gone now._ Oh well. Now there was a lower hum, more like a groan. What was wrong with his toothbrush? It made another odd noise. He took it out of his mouth and turned it off, then on again. It sounded normal now. He shrugged, then resumed brushing. Another noise! This one sounded distinctly human. Praxis shut off the toothbrush, rinsed quickly, and charged out of the bathroom.  
  
That liar! Ethos had thrown off the blanket and covered himself with Deimos instead. They were so busy a tangle of lips and limbs and writhing bodies that they didn’t even seem to have noticed Praxis. Their shirts were up around their armpits, their pants were bunched around their knees, and Ethos was kneading Deimos’ ass like a contestant on a baking show with only half an hour left to make a three-tiered showstopper.  
  
“Hey! What are you doing?” Praxis finally managed to pry his jaw off the floor long enough to speak.  
  
Deimos turned a languid, flushed face toward him, and he didn’t need to speak out loud to say _what do you THINK we’re doing?_ Ethos didn’t even bother to acknowledge Praxis; he lunged straight for Deimos’ neck and sucked hard.  
  
“Stop that! Stop that right now!”  
  
Deimos’ slow spreading smile clearly meant _make us_.  
  
“Oh for the love of—” Praxis strode over and promptly tripped on the other mattress, which Deimos must have already dragged down to the floor for the night. He tumbled forward to sprawl halfway across them.  
  
“Oh hi Praxis,” Ethos greeted him, sparing a hand to grope him too. “You’re back!”  
  
“Deimos, he’s drunk. You have to stop this.” Praxis sat back up and grabbed Deimos by the shoulders, trying to peel him off.  
  
“Okay,” Deimos whispered with a suspiciously coy expression.  
  
Praxis narrowed his eyes, but let his grip slacken. In a second Deimos was on him, throwing him down to the floor mattress and pinning him down with his body. Oh! Well, that was better, even if it was indecent to be doing it in front of Ethos like that. Not that they hadn’t technically done it in front of Ethos before, it’s just that he’d been asleep at the ti—whoa! Suddenly Ethos was rolling off the bunk and landing on top of them with a thump.  
  
“Eth—mmmph!”  
  
Deimos cut him off with a hard, demanding kiss. This was _not fair_. He waited approximately 87 years through that cursed party and now Deimos was on top of him—god, he could feel him everywhere!—but he couldn’t in conscience do anything about it. Except kiss him back, because how can you refuse Deimos?  
  
There were hands all over him, caressing and kneading, pushing his shirt up, and one of them pinched Praxis’ nipple until he gave in and groaned out loud. He reached up to touch, but Deimos captured his hands and pushed them slowly back above his head. He leaned over Ethos to reach under the bunk, where they kept their— _uh oh_.  
   
“Deimos, we really shouldn’t—we haven’t even talked about this—”  
  
The handcuffs clicked shut, an innocuous but ominous sound. Praxis tugged, but as he’d suspected, they were anchored around the nearest bar of the ladder. His captors took one look at his expression and cracked up. “Come on, guys. Ethos, you’re not yourself right now. You’re going to regret this in the morning.” He hated himself. He hated everything. All he wanted is what he shouldn’t let them do.  
  
Ethos had been wriggling out of his shirt and pants, and now he was freeing Deimos of his. “I promise you I won’t regret it,” he said, peeking around Deimos. “And you can’t stop me now, so you don’t have to feel guilty.”  
  
Before he could muster another futile protest, Deimos undid Praxis’ pants and yanked them down as far as he could. He gripped Praxis with his bare thighs—shivers!—and dove down to cover his mouth again, soft and strong and inevitable as water eroding rock. His fingers traveled up the sides of Praxis’ arms and slithered back down the tender undersides; Ethos was pressed up against Deimos’ back, covering his neck with kisses.  
  
_I really shouldn’t. I shouldn’t. He’s going to feel so embarrassed about this later and it’ll make everything horribly awkward, maybe even worse than before. And then we won’t fly together well which means—well, maybe I_ should _be screwing that up so we don’t get sent out again. My job is to protect him and the best way to protect him is to keep him out of combat, especially combat with me as backup._ His mind was turning thoughts over and over like clothes in a washing machine, but every fiber of his being was conditioned to cleave to Deimos, and while his mind was busy, his body responded. His mouth reveled in the elastic softness of his sweetheart’s lips; his body drank up the heat and strained against the pressure holding him down.    
  
Deimos moaned into his mouth and arched up off his groin, and Praxis felt a hand coming down between them, brushing against his cock but—as far as he could tell without seeing—curling around Deimos’. Was it Deimos, or—he pulled aside suspiciously from the kiss to check. _Oh god, it’s Ethos. Ethos just touched my dick what is happening in this world._ Ethos was licking and nipping Deimos’ neck, rubbing up against him, slowly stroking him.  
  
Deimos dropped his face to Praxis’ collarbone and whimpered, pushing forward against Praxis and back against Ethos. It was his desperate whine, begging to be taken hold of and—Praxis tried without thinking to reach for him, but he couldn’t. His hands were tied. “Deimos,” he pleaded hoarsely.  
  
“I can’t reach you very well like this,” Ethos breathed into Deimos’ ear. “Don’t you want to sit up?”  
  
“Mmh!” Deimos’ hips jerked forward once more, and he pushed himself up into a sitting position, still gripping Praxis with his thighs.  
  
Praxis now had an uncomfortably good view of Ethos’ hand gripping Deimos’ cock, sliding up and down with languid firmness. His other hand meandered in small circles over Deimos’ body, and he looked down at Praxis, flashing him a grin. “Are you feeling frustrated?” he inquired.  
  
Praxis’ mouth dropped open. “I’m feeling _confused_.”  
  
“Poor thing. I’m surprised you can’t figure out what we’re doing, since it’s something you do every night when I’m trying to sleep, but we’ll try to help you understand.” Ethos let go, and Deimos made a small indignant noise. He kissed Deimos’ shoulder, then leaned down to oh my god take Praxis’ indignant, blushing cock in his hand and give it a long, firm stroke.  
  
Praxis gasped and arched up in spite of himself. Ethos beamed at him, just like he did when they beat their best score in flight sims. “Does this make it any clearer?” He rubbed the wet tip with his thumb, then gave it another stroke.  
  
“Ethos what— _aah_ —I’m not actually confused about _what_ you’re doing, it’s more—”  
  
“I think we’ll just have to give you a demonstration. Maybe you’re a visual learner.” He let go of Praxis and sat back up, rolling Deimos’ nipple between his fingers.  
  
Deimos’ eyelids dropped, his hips jerked, and he let out a keening noise. “Mmmh. _Harder._ ”  
  
“Say please.”  
  
“Harder, please. Aaaah!”  
  
Ethos slowly began to rub him again. “Good. Now say thank you.”  
  
“Nnnh, thank you. Oh!”  
  
“See? Deimos has some manners. Maybe you should learn from him.”  
  
“I have manners!” Praxis protested. “I have better manners than to—”  
  
“Shush. Deimos, please get the lube. I know you have some stashed under my bunk.”  
  
Deimos pulled off his tank top with a pretty little slither and dove halfway under the bunk. Ethos eyed his ass, but didn’t touch it. Deimos surfaced and handed the bottle back to him, his face hopeful, lips slightly parted. _Hey! He’s only supposed to look at_ me _like that!_ Ethos took Deimos’ chin and gently turned his face aside for a kiss. It was oddly tender considering his bizarre, aggressive behavior a few seconds before, and Deimos melted into it in a way that didn’t seem entirely sexual. Praxis unconsciously tugged at the handcuffs again.  
  
He heard the pop of the bottle top, and some undignified but enticing wet noises. Then Deimos reached around behind, hissing slightly as he guided Ethos in.  
  
Time slowed down and then wandered off for a smoke break. Ethos was gripping Deimos firmly by the hips, kissing his shoulder, sliding in and out as Deimos hummed dreamily and rocked back to meet him. They sighed and sweated and swayed like trees in a vigorous tropical storm. Deimos’ eyes fluttered closed and his hands scrabbled at nothing. He fell forward onto Praxis’ chest, his round, perfect ass still up in the air, spread open and vulnerable not for Praxis, but for Ethos.  
  
He could feel Deimos’ warm panting breaths on his chest, the feather tickle of his hair, his fingers reflexively kneading. His soft cries, increasingly desperate, the slapping noises as Ethos fucked him harder than Praxis ever would have expected, not that he would have expected any of this in the first place, good god. “Deimos,” Ethos gasped, shuddering and clutching at him, and Deimos wailed in response, digging his nails into Praxis’ skin.  
  
Ethos drooped down over Deimos, fighting for breath. He pressed gentle kisses into his back, and reached down to stroke him again. Deimos’ hair was clinging to Praxis’ chest, and his face and palms were damp. Ethos looked up and his eyes met Praxis’ in a slow blink, sultry and smug all at once. His hand worked faster, and Deimos’ voice rose up again. “Ethos—aaah!”  
  
“That’s right,” Ethos whispered. “You know my name. You know who’s making you come.”  
  
“Aah ah ah ah—”  
  
“Say it again.”  
  
“Nnnh—ohh—Ethos! _Ethos_ —” Deimos grabbed Praxis’ shoulders and howled into his chest, and Praxis strained at the handcuffs because he needed to hold his sweetheart and kiss him while he came, and he couldn’t couldn’t couldn’t.  
  
Deimos went limp, and Ethos eased his way out and off to the side, stroking his back and thighs. Deimos crawled up to give Praxis a sleepy, thorough kiss, petting his face and hair. He blessed his face with gentle little kisses on the jaw and cheek and brow, carefully lifting up the eyepatch to drop the gentlest one of all on his scarred eyelids.  
  
“I love you,” Praxis whispered.  
  
“Я тебя _очень_ люблю,” Deimos whispered back. He only ever said it in Russian, at least so far, but it was enough. More than enough. More than Praxis had ever dreamed.  
  
Deimos’ hands smoothed and warmed his arms, his mouth was on Praxis’ neck and then on his shoulder and then moving steadily southward. He licked delicately at the nearest nipple, then sucked hard. Praxis groaned and arched upward. He’d been about to ask to be let out of the handcuffs, but, um, maybe they could stay on for a while longer. Deimos’ fingers were plucking and twisting his nipples, his mouth moving lower and lower and oh god, almost there.  
  
“Please,” he begged hoarsely.  
  
Deimos gave him a look that sent shivers down his thighs. He lifted Praxis’ cock in his hands, examining it thoughtfully, and gave it a long slow lick.  
  
“Mmmh!”  
  
Ethos stretched himself out on Praxis’ unoccupied side, brushing the hair out of his eyes. He ran a finger up Praxis’ throat to his jaw, then over his lower lip.  
  
He unthinkingly opened his mouth, and the finger slipped inside. Ethos was watching him. Praxis froze. _This is strange. This is wrong. This is_ —oh god Deimos just sucked the head into his mouth, his hand was closing around the shaft, and _fuck_ Ethos just added another finger. He tried to protest but somehow all he could do is lick the fingers so they wouldn’t stick when Ethos pushed them in, what was he even doing, why was he sucking hard and moaning and pushing forward to take them further in.      
  
Ethos breathed in his ear, “Do you want these somewhere else?”  
  
“Ah caahh annfuuuh whehhh—”  
  
Deimos started laughing with his mouth full, an unnerving sound to go with the unnerving feeling.  
  
Ethos smiled and removed his fingers. “Well?” He traced a curving path up Praxis’ hip, and set his teeth lightly in his earlobe.  
  
Praxis closed his eyes, trying not to react. “I—I can’t stop you.”  
  
“That’s not what I asked. Do you want my fingers in your ass?”  
  
“Mmmh. Um. Maybe.”  
  
“I don’t know, you don’t seem very sure about this.”  
  
“I am! I am sure.”  
  
“Ask me then. And look at me when you’re talking to me.” He took Praxis’ jaw in his hand and forced his head to turn.  
  
God it was so weird. Ethos looked exactly the same as usual, if a bit more languid, but these words coming out of his mouth….what happened? “I—uh—I?”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Please put your fingers in me.”  
  
“Hmm, I don’t know if I feel like doing that.”  
  
“But—” Praxis sputtered. “But you brought it up!”  
  
“Hahaha! I just wanted to see what you would say.”  
  
“Ethos! That is—that—I can’t even—”  
  
Ethos and Deimos were both laughing now. “I might reconsider. If you begged me.”  
  
“ _Fuck you,_ ” Praxis snarled, then stopped in horror. _I swore at Ethos! I’m going to hell_. Deimos pulled his mouth off and looked up, clicking his tongue in mock disapproval.  
  
Strangely, Ethos looked satisfied. “I thought you wanted me to fuck _you_.”  
  
“I—” He tried to say well I don’t anymore, but what came out was, “I do!”  
  
“Okaaaay, fine, I _guess_ I could do that. Since you want it so much you’re getting all swear-y. Deimos, could you—?”  
  
Deimos rolled off onto the other side, petting Praxis’ shoulder reassuringly.  
  
Ethos sat up, picked up the lube, and looked down at Praxis appraisingly. “I think you should get on your hands and knees. Can you turn over, or do we have to uncuff you first?”  
  
Praxis took a deep breath, and carefully turned over, planting his knees in the mattress. _I am going to rip this ladder out of the floor one of these days,_ he thought. His ass felt so exposed.  
  
Ethos patted it. “You look nice like this.”  
  
“Nice?”  
  
Deimos giggled.  
  
“Should I say naughty instead?”  
  
“No, that’s definitely worse.”  
  
Ethos thoughtfully kneaded his ass with both hands. Praxis begged without words, pushing back up to meet him. He didn’t really get fucked often, but he was going to fucking die if someone didn’t put something up there now. He’d even take it from Cain at this point. _Oh god where did that thought come from. Go away thought, go away._ He made a sad noise, and Ethos finally took pity on him and lubed his fingers.  
  
They felt cool and gentle, caressing and just slightly probing inward. He gritted his teeth. He was just going to wait. He was not going to give Ethos the satisfaction anymore.    
  
Deimos flopped down on his back and scooted over to position his head right under Praxis’ face. He smiled up at him and Praxis laughed in spite of himself, dipping down to kiss his nose. Deimos ran his fingers through Praxis’ hair and pulled his head down for a longer kiss. Ethos cleared his throat, but Deimos ignored him.  
  
Praxis suddenly gasped into Deimos’ mouth as Ethos’ finger pushed in. Deimos just clutched his head harder, and their kiss became a struggle. The finger slowly worked its way in further, stroking that one spot and he writhed, caught between the two of them and the handcuffs and it felt so—so—  
  
The finger withdrew—noooo—and he heard another wet noise. Something else was pressing up against the entrance, something much bigger, and his traitorous hips were already pushing back to welcome it but—“Wait! Can you—”  
  
Ethos paused. “Yes?”  
  
“Can we be on our sides? It just feels more—closer.” And that way Deimos could be closer to him, too.  
  
Praxis couldn’t see his face, but he could tell Ethos was smiling. “Aww, your grammar is degenerating. But sure.”  
  
“I thought you were a descriptive grammarian,” Deimos whispered, one corner of his mouth curling up.  
  
Ethos laughed. “I _was_ describing it. He’s not going to get a spanking.”  
  
Praxis whined a little under his breath.  
  
“Unless you really want one.”  
  
“He _always_ wants one.”  
  
“Deimos!”  
  
“Is that true, Praxis?”  
  
“No! Maybe. No. Just—please, stop torturing me.”  
  
Ethos gave his ass one startling slap and then pulled him down to the mattress, setting in behind him. He whispered in Praxis’ ear, “You’re still going to know it’s me.”  
  
“Of course I know! That’s not why I asked.”  
  
“Good.” Ethos licked a slow trail up his neck to his ear. “You know it’s me, and whenever you see me you’ll always remember we did this. You’ll remember that you got down on all fours and begged me to fuck you.”  
  
Praxis’ eyes widened. “Um…okay?” Was this really something Ethos wanted him to remember? Wasn’t this the kind of thing that people generally try to forget about later? A neglected part of his brain reminded him that wanting to forget something generally means it’s a _bad_ thing, and maybe he shouldn’t be going along wi _—shut up_ , said the rest, _we want to do this and we’re going to. Besides, we’re still handcuffed and we can’t get away. Mmmh. Oh fuck yeah, there it is, give it to me, yeah, that feels—it kind of hurts but oh god, yeah, more._  
  
Deimos rolled over to kiss him, holding his face gently; after a moment he reached down to touch him with cool sure fingers.  
  
Ethos sunk his teeth into the back of Praxis’ neck, holding his hip firmly as he pushed in deeper. “You’re my bitch now,” he whispered, and this was so bizarre that Praxis surrendered to the absurdity and just let it be true, because how else could this be happening, how else could his fluffy, innocent little navigator be acting like Cain _NOT THAT HE HAD EVER THOUGHT ABOUT THAT SHUT UP SHUT UP do you think Cain would even bother to finger you first though SHUT UP_. Ethos was in charge now and he wasn’t going to think about anything but how this felt, how his hands were tied and he was covered with beautiful boys relentlessly having their way with him and all he could do was make pathetic noises and struggle as that hot invading erection shoved its way into him over and over, and god, he was going to— _fuck_ they were going to make him—  
  
“Let me,” Ethos said, and he opened his eyes and broke off from the kiss in confusion but apparently Ethos was talking to Deimos, because Deimos let go and slid his hand up to twist Praxis’ nipple instead. Ethos’ hand was closing around him and jerking him fast and rough, and Praxis had just enough pride left to bite Deimos’ shoulder to stop himself from gasping out Ethos’ name as his body shuddered and shattered into meteoric plumes of liquid electricity, just as Ethos stiffened and with one last hard thrust came deep inside him.  
  
Deimos was pressing little kisses into his face again, and Praxis tried to reach for him but guess what, still handcuffed. “Can you please get me out of these?” he begged, and Deimos smiled and scrabbled under the bunk for the key. The cuffs finally clicked open, and he rotated his aching shoulders before reaching out for Deimos, who wiped off his midriff with the sheet and snuggled close.  
  
After a moment, Ethos eased out (only slightly painfully, though Praxis could feel his ass starting to react to the indignities visited upon it) and staggered off to the bathroom. He returned after a few minutes to turn off the light and curl up around Deimos’ back. Praxis was obscurely and somewhat guiltily relieved that Ethos chose Deimos to sandwich instead of him, but his brain was dissolving and he didn’t even care to figure out why. Deimos seemed perfectly happy, though; he solemnly kissed Praxis, and then reached back to grab Ethos’ leg, urging him to drape it over him.  
  
“We should really do laundry,” Praxis murmured through a dark sweet haze. He heard scattered giggles, and then nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trees DO sweat, I looked it up. :P
> 
> "Love Is A Stranger" is by the Eurythmics.


	4. Walking in Circles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something weird is happening, and Deimos isn't sure he wants to know what it is.

Deimos untangled himself from the pile and tiptoed to the bathroom. He very carefully didn’t think about anything, because if you think about things you ruin them. Sometimes they get ruined anyway, but then it isn’t your fault. Probably. He let some of the memories wash over him, though, while the water washed over his body.  
  
He was dry (except for his hair) and dressed by the time the other two awakened. Praxis, who had rolled closer and draped an arm around Ethos while Deimos was gone, looked up at his navigator. “Do you want to go first?”  
  
Ethos yawned and stretched. “No, you go.”  
  
Praxis lumbered to his feet and staggered toward the bathroom, completely and magnificently naked. _Oh my_. Deimos jumped up from the lower bunk for his morning kiss (one of many, usually) and Praxis blinked at him stupidly. “Oh, yeah.” He gave Deimos a lukewarm peck on the lips and shambled onward.  
  
Deimos stood there, his tablet hanging from his hand.  
  
Ethos yawned again. “Come back here—it’s too early to get up.” He patted the mattress next to him.  
  
Deimos curled up on the edge, hugging his tablet to his chest. The tablet was warm, like love.  
  
Ethos turned over to nuzzle his neck. “Hey. Are you okay?”  
  
He nodded, but didn’t uncurl.  
  
A hand petted his hip, a gentle reminder of last night’s firm grip. “Come on, turn around.”  
  
Deimos stared into the distance for a moment, then reluctantly uncurled and turned to face Ethos, rumpled but sweet and inquiring, the way he was in the mess hall that first day.  
  
Ethos stroked his hair. “What’s wrong?”  
  
“Nothing,” he croaked.  
  
“Are you feeling strange about last night?”  
  
Deimos shook his head.  
  
“Are you sure it was okay?”  
  
He nodded firmly, but then his eyes trailed off toward the bathroom.  
  
“Are you worried about Praxis?”  
  
His eyes dropped.  
  
“It’ll be fine, I promise. Praxis loves you.”  
  
Deimos buried his face in Ethos’ shoulder, hoping he’d mistake the gesture for something erotic. Ethos pulled him close and kissed the top of his head, then his forehead, then his lips. Deimos returned the kiss fervently. Maybe Ethos was right, maybe he could make everything all better, maybe this really could work out, not that he even knew exactly what he wanted except for Praxis to love him and Ethos to be close to him and for the awful tension to be gone. He knew sex was the switch that turned tension on and off, and it seemed to work last night, he thought maybe. What he did know for sure was that falling asleep between the two of them was the best feeling in the world; enfolded on both sides by people who cared about him and wanted him and let him touch them.  
  
Ethos felt so warm and safe and good, and his lips were so smooth and yielding. He wasn’t demanding like last night, just gentle and comforting. Yet in some vague undefinable way it was clear that he’d lost his awkward tentativeness.  
  
The bathroom door opened, and Deimos rolled to his feet in a burst of panic. Praxis wandered out towel clad and glanced at Deimos in mild confusion. “Your turn,” he said to Ethos. “I tried to be quick, so there should be plenty of hot water left.”  
  
“Thanks.” Ethos extended a hand and both Praxis and Deimos lunged for it. Praxis won, damn his longer reach! Ethos hugged Deimos. “Don’t worry.”  
  
Once he was in the bathroom, Praxis looked at Deimos curiously. “Don’t worry about what?”  
  
Deimos stared at the floor and shrugged. He desperately wanted to run into Praxis’ arms, but the fact that Praxis hadn’t already swooped him up and covered him with hungry kisses meant something was wrong.  
  
“Hey, are you okay?”  
  
He couldn’t deal with this a second time. Who cared about feelings, anyway, they were stupid and they made you weak. He should never have got so wrapped up in either of them. _Cain was much easier to deal with because he understood this. At least he did for a while._ He sighed and sat down again, picking up his tablet. It would be too dramatic to leave before the others. It would show weakness.  
  
A large, warm, steamy body plunked down next to him, wrapping a damp arm around his shoulders. “Baby, what’s wrong?”  
  
He pulled away. “Nothing.” His clothes were going to get all wet. He hated that. The unevenness of it was the worst. If they were wet all over in the same proportion it wouldn’t be as bad.  
  
“Are you upset?”  
  
“ _No_ ,” he rasped as forcefully as he could.  
  
“Is it about last—“  
  
“NO, just stop it.”  
  
“Sweetheart, come on. Talk to me.” Praxis stroked his cheek and gently turned Deimos’ face toward him. His closeness was intrusive but that face was so familiar and craggy-beautiful and intimate that Deimos found himself melting a little. He wasn’t wearing the eyepatch yet, and his closed, scarred left eyelids required immediate kisses. Then his eyebrows asked for them too, and his forehead and cheeks and nose and of course his lips.  
  
Somehow Deimos ended up flat on his back on the bunk with his jacket off and Praxis’ tongue in his mouth, scrabbling to get his legs around him. That was more like it! Praxis’ mouth left wet trails on his shoulder and neck and ears, plunged a tongue captivatingly into his ear, lingered on his collarbone and slid up his throat back to his mouth. He was thinking about saying fuck it and tearing off his clothes again when Ethos emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam and glory.  
  
Praxis instantly turned to look at him, but didn’t pull away. Ethos smiled and wandered over (towel slung over his shoulder instead of wrapped around his entire torso like a girl!) to pat his ass. “We’d better get ready, guys.”  
  
Now Praxis did jump up, leaving Deimos in a damp pile of disappointment and confusion. He waited for them to get dressed, then trailed uncertainly after them.  
  
***  
  
Breakfast proceeded normally, except he could see that over on the navigators’ side, Ethos was getting considerably more attention than usual, which he guessed was only natural after the events of last night. Lo Duca regaled the fighters with a charming seasonal ditty:  
  
_I saw Ethos kissing everyone_  
_At his birthday party last night._  
_He didn't see me creep_  
_Round the corner to have a peep;_  
_He thought that I was tucked_  
_Up in my bunk all fast asleep._  
_Then, I saw Ethos tickle Keeler Claus_  
_Underneath his pants so snowy white;_  
_Oh, what a laugh it would have been_  
_If Praxis had only seen_  
_Ethos kissing everyone last night._  
  
…and naturally he and Praxis had to drag this would-be troubadour out into the hallway to have a serious chat about his musical skills and general life choices. Praxis got really enthusiastic about it, throwing Lo Duca up against the wall and getting into his face. Deimos even had to pull him off, which was odd because it was usually the other way around.  
  
Morning formation and PT were pretty much as usual, too. Unless, of course, you counted the fact that seven or eight fighters got spontaneous boners when Encke yelled at them. Usually it was only two or three. Deimos was an avid connoisseur of spontaneous boners and was constantly on the alert for them. He hoped one day to see one on Encke, but so far no luck.  
  
Nothing too strange happened during ship maintenance; Phobos was pissy and critical as always, even snapping at Keeler a couple of times when he came by to offer helpful suggestions. As sometimes happened, he threw a fit when Keeler reprimanded him, and had to go to Keeler’s office to be either scolded or comforted, it was unclear. He did stay there an unusually long time, though.  
  
Lunch and dinner were completely normal: the food was bland but filling, and the diners were loud and raucous. He and Praxis sat on the navis’ side with Ethos at lunch, as they had for weeks now; for some reason they only did this at lunch and he had never been able to bring himself to ask why. He generally sat facing the navis and kept a discreet eye on Ethos during breakfast and dinner, possibly a habit left over from the time when he was assigned to watch Abel.  
  
Ethos stayed out late working, which was a pretty common occurrence even before they got all that exciting new data, and Deimos and Praxis spent their free time the way they usually did, which was comforting. Well, the fact that they were _doing_ it was comforting; the actual sex he would describe more as “exciting” or “vigorous” or “somewhat bruising.” They fell asleep early, waking briefly when Ethos came back. Deimos wondered if he would want to join them again, but he just smiled, got ready for bed, and got into his own bunk. The usual tension was gone. That was a good thing, right? Even if he didn’t sleep with them? It was just like before, but Ethos seemed contented and no one had to worry.  
  
***  
  
The next day started out the same, except Praxis made sure to give Deimos extra kisses to make up for the day before. Then he got some from Ethos, and suddenly they were on both sides of him and it was very different from all falling asleep together but just as good. He ended up on the bunk on top of Praxis with his pants pulled down to his knees, Ethos behind him grasping his hips in a gentle but demanding way as he slid into him and Praxis touching his back and whispering into his ear how sexy he was, how good he felt, how just looking at Deimos made him hard and just touching him was going to make him come. Deimos had to change his shirt and they were thinking about second showers but Ethos said it was time to go.  
  
He and Praxis had breakfast with Helios, who they found slumped over a table on his own. “Selene still won’t let me back in the room,” he complained. “I had to crash at Athos’ place AGAIN. That guy does not shut up.”  
  
“Don’t you have the room code too?” Praxis asked.  
  
“Yeah, but he changed it somehow! You know how navigators are. Sneaky. No offense,” he added to Deimos. It was unclear whether he thought Deimos was some exotic species of goth navigator or regarded him as intrinsically and fundamentally sneaky, but Deimos decided to take it as the latter for the sake of social harmony.  
  
He and Praxis hung out with Helios during the breaks in PT, and then at lunch as well. They tried to go sit with Ethos as usual, but his table was already so crowded with navigators hanging on his every word that it wasn’t even worth it to try. After Helios yawned for the eight hundred and eleventh time, Praxis offered to let him take a nap in their room. He followed them back there—what happened to ship maintenance? it wasn’t mandatory for fighters but they always went—and they all filed into the room. Were they all going to take a nap together? Or was Praxis just acting formal the way he did with outsiders?  
  
Praxis pulled their mattress and bedding down to the floor, and Helios and Deimos both gave him quizzical looks. “Oh, sorry—habit. The bottom bunk is Ethos’ and we usually put mine on the floor because the top bunk is a bit narrow for two.”  
  
“Oh, okay,” said Helios, still looking confused (possibly because they were all still standing there). After a moment he sat down on the mattress and leaned his back against the wall. “I’m not even like, super tired, I’m just—I don’t know what to do about Selene. He gets so jealous sometimes, especially about Abel. I’m not even into Abel like that, he was just nice to me when I first got here so I talk to him sometimes. And even if I was attracted to him, even if I actually had sex with him, how would that change anything between us? Selene’s still my navigator. He’s still my number one guy. But he doesn’t seem to know it.” He sighed.  
  
Praxis sat down next to him. After a moment of hesitation, Deimos folded himself down next to Praxis, who petted his knee absentmindedly but didn’t try to pull him onto his lap. “Have you tried talking to him about it?”  
  
“Yeah, of course, but it never seems to go anywhere. Sometimes he seems like he believes me, but the next day the same thing happens. I can’t just stop talking to Abel—or people in general even.”    
  
“Does he really tell you not to talk to anyone else? He doesn’t seem the type.”  
  
“No, he always says it’s fine. But he says it in this _sad way_ , and if I talk to anyone too much I can just feel him looking at me with the sad eyes, and then he starts getting grumpy and snapping at me about nothing, and it makes me sad too. How can I get him to understand I love him?” Helios sighed and leaned against Praxis, who put an arm around him(!), and Deimos felt his very own little tug of jealousy, the first since he’d left Cain. He snuggled closer to Praxis, and Praxis kissed the top of his head before turning back to Helios.  
  
“I guess all you can do is spend a lot of time with him, and do things to make his life easier, and make sure to let him know that he’s your first priority. Past that point it’s out of your hands.”    
  
Deimos curled a tentative hand around his boyfriend’s bicep, hoping it seemed like simple affection.  
  
“I should go see him now,” Helios declared.  
  
“Well, he’s probably busy with all that new data we brought back. This might not be a good time.”  
  
“Oh, you’re right. Maybe after dinner.” He sat back again, glancing sideways at Praxis. _Fuck_. Deimos knew that look. He’d _given_ people that look. Could Praxis see it? His blind side was toward Helios, but his head was turned toward him. “Do you have to go anywhere now?”  
  
“Maintenance,” Deimos whispered in Praxis’ ear, patting his arm rapidly.  
  
“It’s okay, Ethos has it locked down. He doesn’t even need me—I’m just there for moral support. But if you think Phobos needs you, go ahead.”  
  
“Ethos seems pretty confident right now,” Helios said thoughtfully. “He doesn’t look like he needs a lot of moral support.” He shifted, and his fingers brushed over Praxis’ thigh.  
  
“You, however,” Praxis said in the same contemplative tone, rubbing Helios’ shoulder, “could probably use some. You are distraught, after all. Ow! Deimos, that hurts.”  
  
“I’m _very_ distraught,” Helios agreed, turning to face him, so close that their lips were only inches apart. “That means upset, right? Or is it naked?”  
  
“Upset,” Praxis supplied with a smile. “Naked is deshabille.”  
  
“Distraught, then. Super distraught. I may even need to lie down.”  
  
“You definitely should.”  
  
Deimos tugged on Praxis’ arm again, but he was already kissing Helios and merely spared a hand to rub Deimos’ knee. After what seemed like an hour, he turned and kissed Deimos, almost as an afterthought. Or was he just imagining things?  
  
Helios sprawled out across Praxis’ legs to pull off his boots, then reclined on his side to look at them, fluffy black hair falling into his eyes and sticking up the wrong way on top. Deimos couldn’t help himself; he reached out to smooth it into place, and his hand somehow wandered down to feel the sharkskin texture of the back of his head. Helios smiled and blinked slowly like a contented cat, tilting his head to get more. “Are you staying?” he asked Deimos. “I’d love to get to know you better.”  
  
It was only fair that Praxis should get to pick someone out for a threesome, right? After all, Deimos had, and he hadn’t asked first either. And Helios was pleasant and undeniably attractive and unlikely to be ~~out to steal Praxis~~ a complication in future. Praxis’ hand snaked down from Deimos’ knee to caress his inner thigh, and then—oh!—rub his suddenly alert crotch, and a different part of his brain seized the reins. He reached for Helios’ hand and tugged it until the other fighter crawled up to half-lie on top of him, then pulled him in for a slow but increasingly urgent kiss.  
  
He was vaguely aware of Praxis moving over to touch Helios’ back and thighs. Helios sighed into Deimos’ mouth and braced his hands to push his ass in the air. “Could you?” he breathed, breaking the kiss and looking back.  
  
“Of course.” Praxis reached under him to undo his pants and pull them down, and Helios caught Deimos’ lips again, moaning. Deimos pulled their shirts and jackets off, and Helios’ mouth traveled slowly along Deimos’ jaw, down his neck and along his shoulder. It meandered with a sweet and agonizing slowness down to his nipple, and he gasped and clutched at Helios’ hmm, surprisingly brawny shoulders. There was a brief period of shuffling and laughing and yanking off clothing and fumbling under the bunk, and then Deimos was back against the wall while Helios licked very earnestly at his thighs. Praxis was right behind Helios, all muscles and bare skin and authority, reaching underneath to stroke his erection with one hand and knead his ass with the other.  
  
Helios leaned forward to take him in his mouth, and Deimos’ fingers closed around the back of his head as he pushed up to meet him, barely remembering not to grab. They were both making frantic little sounds, Helios’ somewhat muffled as he sucked and licked, and Deimos looked up to meet Praxis’ dark hungry gaze as he positioned himself and pushed in. He couldn’t look away, and it was like Praxis was fucking him, every deep slow thrust meant for his body so that he writhed and wailed and spread his legs wider as if that thick, hard cock were invading his own ass. _I for one welcome our new invading overlords._  
  
The hand on his own cock sped up, and the warm wet mouth slid down further, and he was tapping Helios on the side of the head to warn him, but he only sucked harder until Deimos was convulsing, digging his heels into the mattress with a shout, flooding the other fighter’s mouth with the evidence of his own weakness, the complete liquification of self that overcame him when Praxis looked into his eyes.  
  
Deimos sagged down onto the mattress in a drunken fog, then wriggled closer so Helios could rest his elbows and press the side of his face into his navel. Helios slipped one hand under to jerk himself off, body shaking with Praxis’ increasingly fast and brutal thrusts, and Deimos finally broke their gaze to watch Helios’ face as he experienced the same cataclysmic surrender. Praxis followed a moment later, clutching him as if in agony, and then they were all a panting, heaving, boneless pile sliding slowly but surely into the dark embrace of sleep.  
  
***  
  
He woke abruptly as always, panicking briefly before his mind could organize memory and sensation into a recognizable whole. _Get up get up get ready_ , said the familiar little voice inside him, the one that prodded him to be the first awake and the first ready and the first out the door. He was dressed and out in the hallway before he even thought about what time it might be. Just like this morning, the voice told him _don’t think about what just happened, thoughts are a trap, keep moving._  
  
But as he prowled the halls, unconsciously falling into his old habits of stealth and vigilance, the memories slowly seeped back into his consciousness, and with them, the thoughts. He wasn’t exactly unhappy about it, just confused and unsettled. Why would Praxis initiate something like this? He never had before. Had he developed a taste for threesomes after the other night with Ethos? Had he been secretly craving them all along, but never mentioned it because he thought Deimos wouldn’t like it?  
  
And why Helios? Starting a threesome with Helios was entirely different from letting Ethos initiate one. Helios might be cute and friendly, but he was an outsider, and furthermore he was with Selene, who had already objected to the idea of Helios kissing someone else. Ethos lived with them, they knew him; he was part of the family. And he was single. And the thing with Ethos happened during the special holiday atmosphere of the party, when rules were or at least felt different; but Praxis had started this out in the open, on an ordinary day.  
  
He spotted a familiar fluffy-curly head at the end of the hall, and, compelled by some urge he didn’t understand, crept closer and flattened himself behind a corner to watch.  
  
“Bazin!” Ethos called, waving to another navigator just ahead. “Wait up.”  
  
The little round-faced navigator turned and stared at him openmouthed.  
  
“I never got to kiss you at the party,” Ethos told him, brushing a stray lock of hair out of his face.  
  
Bazin’s hand flew up to his chest. “Me?”  
  
“Yes you, silly.”  
  
“But I’m nobody and you’re…so _cool_. You stood up to _Phobos_. You’re friends with _Abel_.”  
  
Ethos had been smiling, but now he stiffened. “You don’t need to put anyone on a pedestal, Bazin. You’re just as good as any of us. And definitely…” he leaned in to nuzzle his ear. “…at least as cute.”  
  
“Oh! Ethos I um, uh, um…I-I don’t….” Bazin trailed off, tilting his head like a dog picking up scent on the wind. He turned to face Ethos, inhaling in a peculiar way. Ethos tilted his head too; they hovered with mouths an inch or two apart, breathing intently. Bazin stared hard at Ethos’ parted lips, scrunched his eyes shut, and pulled back. He took a deep breath, a breath that seemed more normal, a way of gathering energy to perform an action. Somehow this proved his undoing, though, because he was suddenly falling forward into Ethos’ arms, burying his nose in his neck. Ethos took hold of his head and their mouths slid into place together like pieces in a puzzle. Bazin let out a strangled moan.  
  
“See?” Ethos breathed after a long moment. “You’re a great kisser. I’m sure you’re great at other things, too.” He brought his lips closer again, and Bazin surged forward to meet them. Ethos pulled him into a nearby room, and Deimos’ feet took him onward.  
  
After a few minutes he heard a voice coming from a nearby alcove, and paused to listen. At one time that voice had sent shivers through him, drawing him in as a fire does cold hands. Now it just sounded loud and grating and self-important.  
  
“My dick is plenty for you,” Cain argued eloquently. “You don’t need to be all over Keeler and Ethos and Phobos and half the navis.”  
  
“Pfft. I’m not _all over_ anyone, and anyway, you don’t own me.”  
  
“Look, if you want a threesome or a gangbang or whatever, just let me know and I’ll arrange something. I’m a reasonable man.”  
  
“Yeah, real reasonable. Maybe I just don’t enjoy being followed around and watched all the time!”  
  
“Baby, I already said I’m sorry about that! I was just worried about you! The fighters on this ship are scum, they can’t be trusted.”  
  
“Speak for yourself!” Abel barreled out into the hallway, spotted Deimos, and sighed loudly. “Oh my GOD Cain, you’re STILL having him follow me? You are such a liar! And YOU, I thought you dumped him months ago. Ugh! I can’t even with this!” He stomped off, and Deimos could only stand frozen, mouth slightly open.  
  
Cain scowled at him. “What are you doing here? Are you spying for Cyclops now? Or the commanders?”  
  
Stricken by old emotions, Deimos shook his head.  
  
He sighed. “Ugh, I guess it’s not your fault. The navis are just going wild ever since we came back from the derelict. Looks like anything spooky gets them all horny. We should get some scary movies up in this bitch.” He grinned and smacked Deimos on the back. “Right, kiddo?”  
  
Deimos flinched and swallowed.  
  
His former crush looked at him with new interest. “Don’t tell me you’re still hot for me? Is that why you were hanging around?” He crowded Deimos up against the wall, lifted his chin with a commanding finger, and leaned in until their lips almost touched. “You can tell me,” he crooned. “I won’t get mad.”  
  
Deimos hauled in a deep shuddering breath, then slapped Cain in the face as hard as he could, kneeing him in the balls for good measure. As he bolted off down the hall, he could hear incredulous laughter mixed in with the curses.  
  
Halfway to the hangar bay, he rounded a corner and crashed right into Athos, who toppled over flailing; Deimos had to scrabble at the wall in order to keep from following him to the ground. Athos actually scooted backwards on his hands and feet to increase the distance between them; he looked as startled and wary as Deimos felt.  
  
“Sorry,” Deimos gasped out. He offered a hand, and Athos eyed it suspiciously.  
  
“You’re not going to try to kiss me or anything, are you?”  
  
His eyebrows shot up, and he shook his head.  
  
“Okay then.” Athos allowed himself to be pulled up, and took a moment to brush off his clothes. “Sorry about that, I know it sounded weird. I’ve just been having the craziest day! People have been all over me for some reason, especially the navis. Usually most of them won’t even talk to me! I don’t know if they’re snobs or they’re scared of Porthos or if they just don’t like me for some reason. But today it’s different.” He looked at Deimos. “Has that been happening to you, too?”  
  
Deimos nodded slowly. Interesting.  
  
“I thought for a moment that you might act like them because you kind of…sorry, this is going to sound weird and I don’t mean it that way…you kind of smell like them. It’s not really a smell I guess, but it _feels_ like a smell.”  
  
He sniffed his own arm. It just smelled like jacket to him, and he shrugged.  
  
“It’s probably not a real smell. Maybe it’s because I have synesthesia. I don’t know. Ugh. Stressful! I had to run away from my own room because Porthos and Phobos were, like, simultaneously fighting and trying to hit on me. How’s Ethos doing, by the way? Is he okay? I mean I know he’s not actually your navigator but he sort of is because you live with him. I tried to talk to him a couple times but he was always busy.”  
  
He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Ridiculously, his cheeks felt hot. “He, ah—”  
  
Athos winced. “Is he still like that too? I guess he was like that at the party. I thought maybe he would have calmed down after a couple days. I’ve been wondering if it’s our fault for getting him drunk in the first place, or my fault for starting the game. But he can’t possibly still be drunk. And maybe there’s no fault, because he seems like he’s having a good time. Does it seem that way to you?”  
  
He nodded.  
  
“Maybe he just got more confidence after kissing those people, and that made him popular. I mean that was what we wanted, right? We wanted him to get out more and relax and start uh, trying new things. So we should be happy too.” Athos looked like he was trying to convince himself.  
  
Deimos frowned.  
  
“You think it’s something else? What could it be, though?”  
  
“Cain said—he said they’ve been acting that way since the derelict.”  
  
“Hmm. Like they picked up some kind of space flu? Or space fever? Oh,” he brightened. “Is Cain normal like us too?”  
  
He shook his head vigorously, avoiding Athos’ eyes.  
  
“Aww, too bad. There must be other people who are, though, right? I mean they’re not all fucking in the halls or anything—uh, most of them aren’t, anyway. Do you want to go look for them with me? I promise I won’t try to kiss you, haha.”  
  
Deimos smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Walking in Circles" is by Andy Willoughby, Bob Beagrie, and Gobbleracket.


	5. Dread Sovereign

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter contains Hayden (gasp!) and although no one’s getting traumatized, it involves activities of extremely dubious consensuality (is that a word?). You don’t strictly need to read it in order to follow the story, so if this sounds like a no or if you’re not sure, I suggest skipping to the end notes of this chapter, in which there is a non-graphic short summary.

Unlike some commanders, Hayden didn’t mind the hassle of searching for a new personal assistant. He quite liked the entire application process, from composing ambiguous, self-contradictory, and labyrinthine forms to conducting multiple sequential interviews in which he informed applicants of their positions in the ranking and made gentle suggestions as to how to improve. Sometimes he even interviewed them in a group to encourage a spirit of competition. 

He knew it was unorthodox, but he’d recently decided to open the application process to fighters. Although they were typically under-educated and could sometimes be unruly, they stood to gain the most and could be the most eager to please, and many of them were quick learners. Besides which, he found it amusing to peruse their pathetic struggles with grammar and style. Sometimes he even encouraged the most headstrong to apply, just to give them an incentive to behave. He had no intention of selecting any of them for the position, but they didn’t need to know that.

He’d just brought up a deliciously sensitive topic in the oral interview portion when one of the navigators walked right into his office. Where was his personal assist—oh. Yes. That would be a disadvantage of disposing of the last one before hiring a new one. It had to be done, though. The last one had become insubordinate, needy, and unmanageable, and Hayden had been forced to toss him in the brig for a few days.

He fixed the rather unimpressive, fluffy-haired interloper with his most withering gaze. “Do you have an appointment, navigator?” The navigator...what was his name again? He seemed to remember some unattractive whining about xenoanthropological data collection—or was it xenolinguistics? As if the Kepler were a research vessel! Why hadn’t the boy gone into civilian science if he wanted to collect alien trash? He reached under the desk and flicked the cheek of the current applicant, who was apparently too stupid to pause the interview. He couldn’t think properly like this. Oh yes—Ethos! The one with the tall, one-eyed, sulky-looking fighter. He needed to have a chat with that fighter someday—he looked like quite a challenge.

“I’m sorry, Commander,” the navigator said with an almost appropriate level of humility. “You sent me a message earlier? That I should come see you once my shift was over?”  
  
Hayden perused his notes. “Oh yes. Ethos. You’re earlier than I expected.”  
  
“I’m sorry, sir. Should I come back later?”  
  
He sighed. “You might as well stay, since you’ve broken my concentration.” He paused to shoo the current applicant out from under the desk. “You can finish installing the new cables later, technician.” The boy was very obviously wearing a fighter’s uniform, but it did no good to foster jealousy among the crew. Well, except in certain situations.

“Oh hello, Cain,” the navigator chirped. “I didn’t know you were in the technical training program.”

The ersatz technician gave Ethos a curious little head bob and ducked out, wiping his mouth. The navigator beamed at him and then finally turned his attention back to Hayden, where it should be. Not that he really blamed him—Cain presented a rather pleasant rear view—but he should be showing more respect. Hayden stepped out from behind his desk and paced in a menacing circle around the boy.  
  
“So. Ethos. It has come to my attention that not only did you disobey me and endanger the entire crew by bringing back an unauthorized sample from the derelict, but you hosted an unauthorized gathering the next night in which contraband items were present. What do you have to say for yourself?”  
  
“Why sir—I—I—”  
  
“Yes? Speak up.”  
  
“I really don’t know what to say, sir.” The navigator ducked his head, obviously flustered. _That’s better._ “I believe the sample can give us—has given us—vital information on the genetic code of the alien species that piloted that ship, as well as on—well, you probably wouldn’t be interested in that.”  
  
“Interested in what?”  
  
“Oh, it’s just that the sample appears to be a combination of dried sputum and fibers from some sort of alien plant, sir. It was all over the engine room floor, and only there as far as I could determine. My hypothesis is that the plant contains mind-altering substances, or at least substances that are mind-altering to that alien species, and that the aliens chew the leaves and then spit them out on the floor, rather like chewing tobacco.”  
  
Hayden grimaced (but only briefly, because that was unattractive). “And how is this remotely useful?”  
  
The navigator gave him a patient, condescending smile. “Well, sir, if we ever make contact with living members of this alien species, we can—if you allow us to conduct the research—not only find out what sort of creatures they are, but analyze and possibly learn to synthesize the sort of drugs they like. This could prove useful if they’re friendly and we wanted to trade, and could also be useful if they’re hostile. We would have some idea of what their biology is like and what weapons to use against them.”  
  
“This is not relevant to our mission, and even if it were, it was not your decision to make. You could have infected the entire ship with some noisome virus and made us vulnerable to attack.”  
  
The navigator bowed his head. “I’m very sorry, sir.”  
  
Hayden loomed over his shoulder from behind. “Sorry won’t undo what you did. I suppose the unauthorized gathering the next night was also a scientific experiment with untold benefits to our species?”  
  
The boy looked up, the corners of his (really rather inviting) lips turning up again. “You could say that. Sir.”  
  
“Nonsense! You will destroy the sample immediately in a hygienic manner and then you will be severely punished.”  
  
“Oh no, sir! Please don’t punish me.”  
  
Was he mocking his commander? He must be. Hayden took hold of his jaw and none-too-gently forced his face up. “Your insincere pleas are irrelevant, and I’m growing tired of your insubordination. If you don’t show a better attitude I will be forced to punish your fighter as well.”  
  
“Praxis would probably appreciate that, sir. He loves being punished.”  
  
_Does he now? Focus, Hayden, focus._ “That’s it. You clearly need to learn your place. Pull your trousers down and bend over the desk.”  
  
The navigator undid his trousers and slowly began to push them down, then paused with a bare two inches of skin showing. “Isn’t that a little unorthodox, sir?”  
  
Hayden yanked them down himself and shoved the boy down onto the desk.  
  
“This desk is very clean, sir,” Ethos observed, cheek plastered to the surface. “I’m a little surprised considering what you get up to on it—ow!”  
  
He delivered another stinging slap to the bare behind poking out so invitingly before him, and then another, and another.  
  
“Oh! Ow! Oh. Sir. I—” he pants. “I can almost feel that. It’s like a very gentle pat. OW.”  
  
Hayden redoubled his assault until his hand throbbed and the navigator’s wriggling derriere was covered with an entire prehistoric cave’s worth of overlapping handprints. He took a moment to admire his handiwork, then gave him one more smack just to hear that delicious little whimper again.  
  
“Oh sir! Mmmh!”  
  
“You will speak when spoken to.” He reached underneath to take hold of what turned out to be a surprisingly substantial erection, and gave it a few brisk tugs. “Disgusting. You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”  
  
“I never said I wasn’t, sir. Oh! Mmmh. Sir. Sir did you ever notice that when you say ‘sir’ a lot, it starts to sound completely meaningless?”  
  
Hayden hauled the navigator off the desk and pushed him to his knees, undoing his trousers. “I’m going to stop up that insubordinate mouth of yours, and you’d better get it wet, because after that it’s going up your ass.”

“My mouth is going up my ass? How is that physically possmmmph.” Ethos licked him up and down with surprising enthusiasm—or maybe it wasn’t surprising given how much trouble he was taking to be provocative—then looked up again. “Sir, are you sure you don’t have any lube? I’ve never been fucked up the ass without lube before, and that sounds really uncomfortable. Even with something this…petite.” Instead of dignifying this slander with a verbal response, Hayden shoved into his mouth. He seemed to like that even better. _Petite, my ass. He can barely fit it in_.

The boy had a rather odd blowjob style. Instead of using his hand on the shaft, he was rubbing Hayden’s hips. It felt pleasant though, and considering that this was only preliminary, it was probably a good idea to avoid full stimulation. He was already getting unusually aroused for this early in the game.

The navigator’s hands broadened their area of operation, and it took a couple of minutes before Hayden realized that they were all over his rear. What cheek! He was about to tell him to stop, but it felt…not unpleasant. More and more not-unpleasant. He was actually tempted to urge him on. Before he knew it his trousers were down around his knees and there was a wet finger probing between his buttocks! This had gone too far!

“Na—navigator—” he stuttered. What? What had happened to his voice, the fine commanding voice that he’d practiced in the mirror all those years—

Ethos pulled away and sang, “ _Navigator, navigator, rise up and be strong_ …”  
  
Hayden batted ineffectually at his face, and the intrusive finger dipped inward. Oh. Oh dear. He moaned without thinking, then mentally kicked himself.  
  
“ _The morning is here and there’s work to be done_ …”

“Stop. Singing. I can’t believe I even have to—aaah!” The finger slipped in deeper, stroking a spot that he reserved strictly for— _ohhh_ —objects that he controlled, and even then only on special occasions. Although maybe that had been a mistake, because this felt a lot better. _So_ much better. Why was he such a tightass? Why hadn’t he been telling his boys to do this all along? It’s not like they’d be fucking him. It’s not like they’d be bending him over a desk and spreading his ass and sliding in, grunting and thrusting and stuffing his tender ass full of hard cock, making him squirm and spread his legs wider and whimper for more.

The navigator had stopped sucking and now he was licking absentmindedly just under the head, humming more of that accursed ditty. Hayden clutched at his woolly, unruly hair—what kind of mods did this boy have anyway?—but the navigator nipped lightly at him and he let go with a curse. “That’s very rude, sir. I thought you had better manners than that.” His tongue snaked out again and Hayden groaned, pushing back against the invading, devilishly captivating finger. “I think it might be time to move on to the next part of our show. What do you think?”  
  
“Fine. Get up.”

Ethos slowly worked the finger out again—alas!—then climbed to his feet. Hayden didn’t like the smile on his face.  
  
“Bend over the desk and spread your legs.”

“I’m sorry, sir, I think there’s been a misunderstanding.” He drew closer to nuzzle Hayden’s jaw, hand suddenly firm and possessive on his rear. “ _You’re_ going to be the one bending over.”  
  
“Nonsense!”  
  
“Didn’t you like what I was doing?”  
  
“I—well—I—I suppose it was not entirely unpleasant.” Why was he even answering this impertinence?  
  
“All I want to do is please you, sir. Don’t you ever get bored doing the same old things over and over?” That damned finger was pressing in again, rubbing gently at his entrance; it was getting a little dry, but his cock twitched anyway.  
  
“No.”  
  
“I think you’re not being entirely truthful, sir. I think you want it.” His unoccupied hand wrapped around Hayden’s cock and slowly started to move.  
  
“Fine! But shut up about it!”

“That’s good, sir.” The navigator gently nudged him toward the desk, and Hayden, trying desperately to shut off the part of his brain that knew what he was doing, leaned over to prop himself up on his elbows. It was just leaning. He was not bending. Leaning is normal. The navigator gave his cock a few more languid strokes, patting his bottom with the other hand. “You’re a good boy. Sir.”  
  
“ _Fuck_ you.”  
  
“No, I’m going to fuck _you_.”  
  
Hayden horrified himself by moaning and spreading his legs.  
  
“That’s right. Good boy.” Ethos let go, then moved behind him.  
  
Hayden felt something blunt and far too thick at his entrance and blurted out, “Wait! It’s too dry!”  
  
“Oh no! Too bad we don’t have any lube. I guess we’ll just have to use spit. Gosh, my mouth is so dry right now….”  
  
“Wait! I have some! I just remembered!” He leaned over as far as he could, plastering his body against the desk, and fished in the drawer on the opposite side. “Here!”

“That’s great, sir!” enthused the navigator. “I knew you’d be prepared.” He accepted the hurried offering and dispensed what Hayden fervently hoped was a generous amount. He felt cool wet fingers lightly touching and probing, and then something much hotter and harder and larger. Determined not to make noise, he gritted his teeth but allowed himself a small push back.

“That’s good! I’m going to let you do the moving at first.” Hands stroked his flanks, encouraging him, and in a desperate attempt to avoid the humiliation of desire, Hayden finally succeeded in shutting up the sane portion of his brain. He pushed back too quickly at first, eager to get the thing inside, and hissed at the sudden jolt of pain.

He suddenly wondered if this was anything like what his tricks felt when he was doing the same to them. _No, I’m much rougher._ Would this one get rough with him? Would he hold him down and shove it up inside him without mercy? He moaned at the thought, and began to move in earnest, inching his way back until he could feel the navigator’s body pressed against his buttocks and his inner passage was alive with heat and pressure.

What if someone were to walk in and see him like this? What if the voyeur called his friends, and they stood around in a group laughing and whispering and taking pictures? What if they shared the pictures all over the ship, all over the fleet even, and every soldier who saw him knew that he was just a bitch in heat that anyone could bend over and penetrate without asking? Even the women would be shoving him to his knees in the hallway and passing him around like candy.

Hayden lost all his words; his new languages was made up of grunts and groans and sharp whiny gasps. He clutched the edge of the desk and pushed back violently, but the navigator eased partway out.  
  
“Easy, sir. I know you’re excited, but you might hurt yourself if you keep going that hard.” A hand slapped his ass lightly.

Hayden pressed his face to the table, and sweat dripped down onto the otherwise immaculate surface. Without thinking, he licked it up.

Ethos laughed. “That’s right, lick that desk. Yes, I’m serious. Lick it. Keep licking it until I tell you to stop. I don’t care how clean it is, you’re going to make it cleaner.”

He eagerly obeyed, hardly even registering the absurdity. The desk was smooth and cool and tasted of nothing in particular, but he thought of all the people that had been splayed over it or perched upon it; symbolically he was licking every one of their asses, one by one. He was their slave. He sneaked a hand back underneath to tug himself frantically, and ~~his master~~ the navigator allowed it for a few glorious seconds before ordering him to stop.

“I’m going to fuck you now, so you’re going to need both hands to hold onto the edge. Ready?”  
  
Hayden moaned assent, still licking the desk as directed. He spread his legs a little wider, and oh! Yes. Yes. More.

Ethos hummed in rhythm with his languid thrusts. After a moment he broke out into song again. “ _Take your pick and your shovel and that old dynamite, for to shift a few tons of this earthly delight_ —no offense, sir— _yes to shift a few tons of this earthly delight_ ….”  
   
Hayden closed his eyes and endured this new torment. It didn’t stop him from enjoying himself, though.  
  
“You look nice, sir. But I think you should take your shirt off. I’d like to see your back.”  
  
“But—”  
  
“Take it off.”  
  
“Yessir,” he stammered without thinking, and fumbled to obey. _Damn_.

“That’s very nice,” Ethos told him, running a hand over his back. He was still moving slowly and gently, as if Hayden were some kind of shrinking virgin. “You can stop licking the desk now, by the way.”  
  
“Thank you.” He pushed back impatiently, letting out a soft grunt. He wanted it harder! He could take it like a man!  
  
“You seem a little impatient,” the navigator noted. “Should I stop messing around and get to business?”  
  
“Yessir,” he panted. “I mean. Yes. Please.”  
  
“You don’t have to call me sir! You’re the commander, silly.” He emphasizes his words with a firm swat on the ass.  
  
“Yessir—yes. Ethos.”

“That’s right. Now get ready.” He leaned over to grip Hayden’s shoulders, and gradually increased his pace. Hayden made an impatient noise, and Ethos took the hint, and oh—oh—oh god, he was pounding him hard, there was no going back now, nowhere to hide, just hard hands and hard cock inside him and hard thrusts battering him into submission, not that he hadn’t already submitted but now it was complete, he was nothing but a wriggling, whimpering thing whose whole purpose was to be pushed down and humiliated and fucked until he screamed, and then fucked some more until his master was done with him.

Ethos’ panting breaths mixed with Hayden’s and synchronized, and he finally told Hayden he could touch himself. “I want you to come with me, understand? I’ll tell you when.”  
  
“Yes—nnnh—”  
  
“Good—good—yeah.”

Hayden couldn’t stop moaning. He couldn’t even make decisions for himself on the biological level. His entire physiology was at the navigator’s beck and call.  
  
“I want you—to remember—every time you sit down at this desk—”  
  
“Mmmmh—”

“—what I did to you on it. You’re going to remember my cock up your ass and how you bent over and begged for it. You’re gonna remember—that I own you—every inch of you. And if you ever—get out of line—I’ll show you who’s boss, and this time—I won’t use lube.”

Hayden cried out and almost came right then and there.  
  
Ethos didn’t make him wait much longer, though. A few moments more and he whispered, “Ready?”  
  
“Mmmmhhhh—yes—yes—ahh—”  
  
“Now go. Do it.”

The fingers dug into his shoulders like claws, teeth closed on the back of his neck, he was a wild beast brought down by a tiger and his screams were nothing but the death throes of all he had been. He was dying into a welcoming soft darkness but first he had to come into the light, burning away until there was nothing left.

Ethos sat back up and gave him a pat on the shoulder. “I hope I didn’t hurt you. Much.”  
  
The word “no” fell out of his mouth and then drifted away. He couldn’t see it. He couldn’t hear it.

Ethos was pulling out, doing up his trousers, sitting down in the commander’s chair. “You were very good, but you made a mess on the floor. Get down there and clean it up.”  
  
He slowly peeled himself off the—surface—what name—no matter—and sank to his knees, fell forward again, began to lick the way he’d licked the desk. Desk. That was the word. Ethos propped his feet up on his back, and even without looking Hayden knew his master was smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Hayden summons Ethos to scold him about the derelict sample and the party, and to his surprise Ethos is unrepentant and cheeky. Hayden becomes increasingly frustrated at his inability to get Ethos in line and decides to “punish” him in a rough physical way without asking. Ethos’ cheek intensifies and he laughs at Hayden throughout, then sneakily flips him and tops. Hayden now appears to be under his control.
> 
> Actual notes: The song Ethos is singing is “Navigator” by the Pogues, from their album “Rum, Sodomy, and the Lash.” I have no shame. :)
> 
> "Dread Sovereign" is by Shearwater.


	6. Utopia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 28 days I mean two months later....

The hallway was a suffocating venous tunnel, lit only by the dim pulsing crimson of the emergency lights. Here and there handmade posters lay torn and scattered on the floor or roosted crookedly on the wall like drunken moths. Deimos didn’t bother to look at them; he’d seen them all before and they were nothing but infectionist propaganda.  
  
Not that the infected called themselves that, of course. The way they put it, they were comrades who had finally decided to join together and revolt against the xenophobic military-industrial complex that was the Federated Alliance; they were steering the ship toward a new planet on which they would build an egalitarian, environmentally-friendly utopia. It was unclear how much of this was the virus and how much was Ethos’ influence as Patient Zero and their leader.  
  
The infected never bothered to answer questions about the logistics of settling an alien planet using only the dwindling resources of a single scouting ship, or the feasibility of populating it with a genetic pool of less than 300 people (90% of whom were male), or why they had such a rigid hierarchy if their aim was equality for all. That was the point when they usually leaped at you, or started shooting.  
  
Tranq darts, of course—they didn’t want to kill you any more than you wanted to kill them. It was a life and death struggle, but sometimes it felt more like a game of paintball.  
  
Or possibly a video game, the kind where you could play as either of two sides. If you play as the infected, you start in control of the bridge, the engine room, and the armory; you’re equipped with tranq darts and you get a bonus to constitution and charisma with deficits in speed and focus. You determine where the ship goes and you’ve also raided all the fuel for the away ships, effectively grounding them. Morale is high and your people don’t seem to need much food.  
  
If you play as the immune (composed of the few naturally immune, such as Deimos and Athos; the few susceptible people who were never infected, such as Selene and the MO; and those who were previously infected but had been cured and rendered immune, like Helios and Phobos), you start in control of the medbay, the mess hall, the brig, and the hangar; you’re equipped with cure darts and you get a bonus to speed and focus and deficits in constitution and morale. Because you control the mess hall and attached storerooms & algae vats, you control the majority of the ship’s food supply and can sometimes trade for arms or prisoners. You have the advantage in that you can turn the other side but they can’t turn you, which means that given enough time you’ll probably turn them all immune; but you don’t _have_ that much time—if you don’t gain control of the ship soon enough _no_ one will be immune, because everyone will be dead, or worse. No one knows what the infected are steering the ship toward, but they never deviate from their course.  
  
In either case you have a small army composed of brawny, mobile fighters (warriors), weak but technologically savvy navigators (wizards), and sturdy maintenance techs, who know their way around every inch of the ship and understand how everything works (rangers).  
  
Deimos hated that kind of game. He liked the kind where you ran around shooting things. Luckily for him, he was about to play exactly that.  
  
He hoisted his dart gun and reflexively patted his bandolier of cure cartridges. These two precious items were worth more than his own life, whatever Selene might say. Selene was a good leader and a brilliant strategist, but Deimos secretly considered him a little soft.    
  
It’s not like _he_ wanted to lead the immune faction, though, so he wasn’t complaining. This was all far, far beyond his pay grade, and all he could bring himself to look forward to was the day when he’d finally bring down Praxis and Ethos and get them home to the central immune base in medbay. Or to one of their secondary bases, if that wasn’t possible. They’d rigged up the brig to be pretty comfy, and of course the mess hall had the best food.  
  
He couldn’t even look far enough ahead to imagine curing everyone on the ship and getting it back on course. It might happen—hopefully it _would_ happen someday—but he couldn’t think about it. He couldn’t think about the time before the infection either. That time didn’t exist. This war was the only thing that mattered.  
  
He’d just now slipped past Lo Duca, nodding off on his guard stool by the medbay door. It was hard to tell if Lo Duca’s stupor came more from exhaustion or the vodka that he still somehow managed to find; in either case Deimos might not exactly respect him for it, but he could hardly blame him. His guilt at allowing Bazin to become and remain infected had consumed him; he no longer clowned around and in fact barely even spoke. Deimos suspected he was carrying an additional load of guilt from allowing Bazin to seduce him. He certainly wouldn’t be the only one in that case.  
  
Deimos sent Lo Duca a silent mental apology for adding to his burden. Hopefully he would never know Deimos had sneaked out on his watch.  
  
He wasn’t supposed to go out alone or when it wasn’t his shift, but he didn’t have the know-how to sit around playing computer wars all day like the navis and he had neither the patience nor the skill to play nursemaid-slash-jailor to their patients-slash-prisoners. He’d brought in Phobos two weeks ago and spent his share of time by his bedside, but Phobos was in no mood to talk and of course Deimos never was. It was an uncomfortable silence. At least they’d never slept together—that would’ve made it even more awkward.  
  
He slunk out into the corridor, instinctively pressing himself against the wall even though there was no concrete reason to do so. If anyone were watching, they’d be able to spot and target him just as easily.  
  
Today he was after Praxis, who reportedly was stationed in the engine room; Ethos and his underlings were too well-guarded in the bridge and it had become clear that the only way to take him would be to take out his war leaders first. The immune had scored a major victory two days ago when Athos darted Morena; they hadn’t been able to bring her back and the infected had probably locked her up, but that meant Ethos had in one stroke lost his war leader, the only other primary-level infected person, and his cultural liaison with the colonial infected. The infected might share a creepy near-telepathic bond and instinctively defer to the person who infected them (and to the person who infected _that_ person, all the way up the line), but that didn’t mean they didn’t have their differences. Praxis was probably next in line for the war leader position, since he was the closest to Ethos of all the secondary-level infected. Not that Deimos thought Praxis wouldn’t be good at the job—clearly he was perfect in every way even if no one but Deimos could see it—but the infected were prone to nepotism.  
  
Deimos didn’t actually expect to catch Praxis today (realistically, that was probably going to take an entire team) and he didn’t want to dart him without catching him, but it would be enough just to see him, to engage in the precarious dance of mutual pursuit that had become almost a habit. He suspected—he hoped—that Praxis might even be disobeying orders sometimes in order to do it, just like he was. What if one of these days he agreed to a brief truce? Maybe for…half an hour or so. Or an hour. Neither side had to know. But then again, what if Praxis agreed to the truce and then double-crossed him, wrestled him down and threw him over his shoulder and brought him back to infected headquarters so he could chain him to a wall and have his way with him over and over every day…  
  
Hmm. If he was having those thoughts, he was probably getting close to his destination. Deimos approached the engine room cautiously, wondering briefly (as always) if he should have worn his respirator mask. Again (as always) he dismissed the thought: he was mentally prepared for the pheromones now, and motivated to resist them. Also, wearing a respirator mask was the best possible way to shout, “I’m immune!” from a distance. At close range the infected could tell by smell whether you were infected or not (although they couldn’t tell whether you were actually immune), but if you were that close to them chances were you were already fighting, or someone had already lost.  
  
Just one guard out in front—and not even a fighter, just some maintenance worker. Careless. Deimos tossed an empty soda can at him and dodged back when he fired. He lured the guard after him around a corner—these people had no discipline!—and stuck him with a tranq syringe, holding him down until he stopped struggling. Then he injected him with a spare cure cartridge (no need to actually shoot him once he was down). They used to mix the cure cartridges with sedatives, although it was risky because dragging a sedated person through the contested zones slowed you down and made you more conspicuous. Selene finally decided to remove the sedatives after they lost Amaru and Polachev on two consecutive days; each time an infected had managed to grab their dart gun and turn it back on them.  
  
Deimos carefully put away the empty cartridge and syringe, checked the guard’s pulse, and then went through his pockets, finding a pack of gum— _useless!_ —and a couple of spare tranq darts— _not useless!_ He was just reaching for the tranq gun itself when a finger tapped him politely on the shoulder. He knew who it was even before he looked around.  
  
“Hi, sweetheart,” said Praxis. “It’s been a long time!”  
  
***  
  
“I realize this may seem a little provocative,” murmured Praxis, aiming his own tranq gun as Porthos pulled Deimos’ hands behind his back and slipped the handcuffs—his and Praxis' own _personal_ handcuffs!—onto his wrists, “but I need to bring you straight to Ethos, and of course I respect you too much to let you have your hands free.”  
  
Deimos shivered anyway, and his cock throbbed and twitched. Why was this so hot—well, he knew why. _Fight it._ Why had he never thought about Praxis and Porthos together, handcuffing him and— _fight it_.  
  
_There’s no point in fighting it, you’ve been caught_ , another voice whispered. _Just give up and spread your_ —STOP.  
  
Praxis stepped closer and gently stroked Deimos’ cheek with the backs of his fingers. “I missed you,” he whispered.  
  
“Stop it,” Deimos croaked. To his horror tears were welling up in his eyes.  
  
“It’s all going to be okay now. We’ll be together. You’ll see.”  
  
Porthos cleared his throat quietly, and Praxis sighed. “Yes, you’re right, we should get moving.” He crouched down to pick up the fallen guard, and slung him over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry. _He’s so strong, mmmh—shut up._  
  
They strode down the hall toward the bridge, Porthos gripping Deimos’ collar with one hand and holding a tranq gun at the ready with the other. “So, um—how’s Phobos doing?” he asked quietly.  
  
“Come over to our side and you’ll find out.”  
  
“Haha, nice try. I don’t feel like getting shot up with mind-control serum.”  
  
Deimos clammed up again. There was no point in arguing with the paranoid fantasies of the infected.  
  
The bridge was a swarm of activity, even more so than in the pre-infection era. Fighters clustered at the entrance and around Ethos’ high-backed ~~throne~~ seat by the front window; navigators and techs were draped over the computer terminals and occasionally each other. At this point the infected were mostly past the mating frenzy stage unless they thought they had a chance of infecting someone, but they still tended to be disarmingly cuddly. His eye lingered on the curves of biceps and thighs and buttocks; every single person there was the most erotic sight Deimos had seen in his entire life and despite mentally searching for exit points he fervently hoped they were all going to strip him down and ravish him one by one. Preferably starting (and ending) with Praxis and Porthos together.  
  
“Deimos!” Ethos jumped up and waded through the sea of minions to give him a warm, enthusiastic hug. Deimos’ lips parted almost on their own, and he buried his face in Ethos’ neck, breathing in his indefinable lovely Ethos smell. It wasn’t even just the pheromones; he’d always secretly thought Ethos smelled wonderful and safe and enticing on those few occasions when they’d hugged. He’d always wanted to unzip Ethos’ jacket and bury his nose in his neck, pull up his undershirt and find out if he smelled the same way all over.  
  
Ethos took his face in his hands and kissed him gently, and Deimos was suddenly acutely aware that his hands were cuffed behind his back, and he was being physically restrained by big brawny fighters who would do anything, absolutely _anything_ at all to him if Ethos just said a few words. He melted into the kiss, opening his mouth and moaning shamelessly and trying to rub against him, but after a moment Ethos pulled away with a rueful smile.  
  
“I’m sorry, I really shouldn’t have done that. I was just so happy to see you!” He turned to speak back over his shoulder. “Hayden, turn the vents up to maximum, please. We want Deimos to have a clear head.”  
  
The kneeling man in white that Deimos had vaguely assumed was a junior navigator scrambled to his feet and rushed off to comply. So that’s what had happened to the commander! Kinky. No one from the immune side had seen him since the beginning and there were even rumors that he was dead.  
  
Fresh air rushed into the room (the navigators on both sides were engaged in a perpetual battle for control of the ship’s vital functions, but there was an unspoken truce regarding the air filtration system), and Deimos’ dick reluctantly admitted that other parts of his body might deserve some blood too. He suddenly realized that Ethos had essentially just admitted to the pheromones’ existence and influence; as far as he knew none of the other infected had ever acknowledged this. They just said they could tell who was a comrade and who was brainwashed.  
  
Ethos smiled. “Is that better?”  
  
Deimos nodded warily.  
  
“Please, have a seat. Luna, could you—?” Luna scrambled out of his chair. “You can let go of him, Porthos.”  
  
Deimos reluctantly sat down, aware of Porthos’ looming form behind him. Praxis stood next to him, ostensibly facing Ethos but sneaking side glances at Deimos. He was beaming like an idiot.  
  
Hayden rushed back and folded himself down at Ethos’ feet, dropping his gaze to the floor. Ethos took a moment to ruffle his hair and then looked back up at Deimos. “So, as you can see, we’re not exactly the sex-crazed zombies that Selene thinks we are. We’re just your friends and co-workers, working together to create a better life. We’re a lot nicer to each other now and we don’t have all those stupid rules. People can live wherever they want to, with whoever they want to, and they can wear whatever they want to. They’re even free to go over to your side if they want. Praxis, do you want to go over to their side?”  
  
Praxis smiled. “No, thanks. Especially not now that Deimos is here!”  
  
“Do you want to go over to the other side, Hayden?”  
  
“No sir!!! I love you sir!” Hayden shook his head vigorously.  
  
“Hayden,” Ethos said in a tone of affectionate reproach, “I told you not to call me that. We’re all equal here.”  
  
“Yessir! Ye—yes Ethos.”  
  
_He’s a little over-enthusiastic_ , Ethos mouthed over Hayden’s head. “Anyway, I thought you and Praxis might want to spend some time together, and maybe we could give you a tour after that so you can see how we operate. We’ll have to take your weapons for the moment, but you can have them back later.”  
  
Deimos’ mind raced. _He must know I’m immune, right? They both fucked me weeks ago and I didn’t get infected. Selene and Seacole used my blood to develop the cure. But what if—what if they somehow found a way to engineer the virus to get around the cure? No, they don’t have the facilities—we control medbay. But what if the virus mutated on its own? But if it did, wouldn’t they be putting it in their tranq darts? If they’d developed a new version that could infect immune people we’d be seeing their (formerly) immune prisoners back in the halls fighting on their side. I guess it can’t hurt to go spend some time with Praxis. And Ethos is so arrogant now, he thinks I’ll come over to his side just like that? Maybe I can get away later, or even be a spy. In any case it’s not like I have a choice about where I go at the moment._  
  
Porthos divested Deimos of his gear and escorted him and Praxis to what used to be a storage room but was now clearly a makeshift bedroom. Praxis took Deimos' hand and led him in. Porthos stationed himself outside the door, which closed to hide him and then there was nothing but Praxis in all his muscular, bumpy-nosed, dark-eyed glory and Deimos couldn't decide if he wanted to just devour him whole or offer himself up for immediate destruction.  
  
Praxis quickly switched up the air vents. “I don’t understand why, but I know you guys have a thing about the air vents. And you…don’t like sex now? We don’t have to have sex. We can even stay at opposite ends of the room if you want. I’m just so glad to see you. It—feels like I can breathe again.”  
  
Deimos was in his arms before he could finish speaking.  
  
“Oh baby,” Praxis’ voice was thick. “I love you so much. It hurt so much being away from you. Are you okay? Do you still have…regular feelings?” He stopped kissing Deimos’ face for a moment to look at him.  
  
“Of course I have regular feelings, you idiot,” Deimos rasped through a flood of unmanly tears. “Nothing happened to _me_. It’s _you_ who got infected.”    
  
“Baby, I’m just fine. Can’t you see I’m not sick? If anything you look kind of tired—but great! I mean you look great, don’t get me wrong. You always look gorgeous.” He laughed as Deimos batted at his face in mock anger, then swooped him up off his feet in a fit of exuberance. “I’m just so happy to see you! Did I mention I’m _so_ happy to see you?”  
  
Deimos wrapped his legs around Praxis’ waist—in a purely chaste way, of course—and pressed his lips to his lover’s grievously neglected forehead and cheeks and nose and lips. _I missed you I missed you I missed you_.  
  
“I’m—mmmmh—sorry I had to trick you—don’t look at me like that! It was driving me crazy getting these little glimpses of you every few days. Although I was glad to see you because that meant you were okay...relatively speaking, anyway—okay sorry, controversial topic. Should I just stick to—”  
  
Deimos seized the back of his head. “Shut up and kiss me.”  
  
***  
  
Two hours later, he was back at the medbay door, all weapons and ammo returned as Ethos had promised. They’d even given him the tech he darted; the man was still groggy and confused, but able to stumble along with some support. It was a perfect alibi for his absence; all he had to say was that he’d sneaked up and stabbed the tech with a tranq syringe, and then dragged him into a closet to give him a cure dart and hide until he woke up enough to walk. Of course he’d still be in trouble for going out on his own, but that had happened before and he doubted Selene would do anything but lecture him.  
  
Ethos hadn’t even asked him for anything in return, at least not anything specific. He’d just said, “Come back and see us sometime. I’ll tell my people not to tranq you.” It was an invitation, not a command.  
  
And Deimos did, to his shame, go back. Again and again. He couldn’t even blame it on the pheromones. There were no pheromones around him when he made the decision to use Ethos’ suggested alibi, no pheromones around him when he made the decision to sneak out, no pheromones when he slipped out of the medbay or the hangar or the mess hall on his way to see his friends on the other side. He knew Ethos was trying to subvert him and he didn’t care.  
  
Or rather he _did_ care, but he tried not to. He comforted himself with the thought that at least he wasn’t giving them any information or resources. He didn’t even say much of anything. When he saw Ethos, Ethos did all the talking, and when he saw Praxis, they didn’t need to talk.  
  
He usually went for much shorter periods than he had the first time, so he wouldn’t be caught. It was too bad he couldn’t meet Praxis on his scheduled patrols, because those were always done with a partner; probably Selene had anticipated something like this happening. Well, he hadn’t anticipated how sneaky Deimos could be. Deimos had more than two decades’ worth of experience at sneaking around undetected.  
  
One day while they were lounging in a post-coital daze on the mattress, Praxis asked him if they still had hot chocolate mix over in the mess hall. Deimos smiled and trailed his fingers over his chest, and Praxis hastily apologized. The next time they met Deimos brought him three packets, his ration for the month plus Seacole’s (allergic), and Lo Duca’s (didn’t care).  
  
A few days later he was out on patrol with Artemis, hunkered down in a shady surveillance nook, and spied Keeler out of the corner of his eye. Artemis was facing the other direction. Keeler caught Deimos’ eye and very deliberately winked.  
  
Deimos had a clear shot. There was absolutely no reason not to shoot. Darting Keeler would have been a major coup even if they couldn’t bring him back—not only was he one of Ethos’ highest-ranking lieutenants and best hackers, but he was one of the few navigators who was both enthusiastic about and skillful at hallway combat. It wouldn’t even hurt him, and might save his life. Deimos’ trigger finger twitched very slightly, then went limp. Keeler gave him a cheery smile and ducked back out.  
  
The next time he had a clear shot at an infected (he had to start thinking of them as the infected again, not as Praxis and Ethos and Cain and Abel and Keeler), he made sure to bring her down, and bring her back. It wasn’t anyone he knew, though, which made it easier. It was getting harder and harder to distinguish the infected from everyone else in the back of his mind; once they’d infected everyone who could be infected, there had never been much about them that was different from normal people. Sure, they had a hierarchy while pretending not to have a hierarchy—just like the people in his old school. They’d gone through a period of having sex with anyone who wanted to—so had he. They believed in some crazy illogical things—just like people everywhere. They were obliviously set on a course of self-destruction—just like the rest of the human race. The one major distinction for him had been who he lived with and worked with and saw every day, and who he shot at in the corridor.  
  
Not to mention that they were just more pleasant to be around. They were cheerful—not fake-perky, but genuinely optimistic and upbeat. They were friendly and down-to-earth. No one was snapping or sighing or sulking at each other like they did in the immune camp; there were no fistfights or fighters leering and groping the way there had been before the infection. People hugged when they met each other, even Encke. Even _Cain_.  
  
And they were especially nice to him personally. He knew Ethos must have told them to be, but they seemed genuine about it, as if Ethos had just used his magical Ethos powers to make them like him and feel excited to see him. He probably had. Deimos had never realized how profoundly satisfying it could feel when people were happy to see you; of course it had felt good before the infection when Praxis had been happy to see him, but he’d always assumed that the happy feeling came from Praxis’ presence.  
  
He tried hard to think of them as creepy zombies again, but his aim failed the next time, and the time after that. Selene—probably under the impression that he was cracking from stress and exhaustion—told him to take a few days off. Of course then he had nothing to do but hang around and get underfoot, so he volunteered to run messages between the immune bases (online messages weren’t secure anymore), which meant each place thought he was at one of the other places, so he could go see Praxis again.

One day he went in and Praxis turned out to be on a mission elsewhere; Ethos greeted him looking more sober than usual. “Deimos, hi! I was hoping you’d come see me. Hayden just mentioned something yesterday—I don’t know why he waited this long to tell me! Hayden, you’re a very naughty boy.”  
  
“I knowsir I’m sorrysir.” The former commander, already on his knees beside Ethos, crumpled forward to knock his forehead gently against the floor.  
  
“Hayden, stop that! Sit up.” Ethos smoothed his rumpled golden hair. “I forgive you. Now go see if Cain or Porthos wants to play catch, okay?”  
  
“Yessir!”  
  
“Yes, _Ethos_.”  
  
“Yessirethos!” Hayden galloped off.  
  
“Sheesh, he is a handful! I only keep him with me because he bothers the others if I don’t. Anyway, what I was going to tell you is that he told me that before the revolution started, the commanders were planning on assigning you and Praxis to different ships once the Kepler got back.”  
  
Deimos froze.  
  
“He said they don’t like it when fighters get too attached to each other, because you’re only supposed to be attached to your navigators. Ridiculous, right? Like you can only be attached to one person?”  
  
There was no good reason why his chest should be so tight. There was no reason why the floor should be so far away. This was a matter of life and death and who went on which ship for a few months shouldn’t matter in the general scheme of things, right? They could always appeal, right?  
  
“Here, sit down.” Ethos pulled him onto his lap. It was a little awkward on a desk chair but he barely noticed. Who was he kidding. No fighter he’d heard of had ever been successful at appealing his transfer to a different ship. You could ask for a new navigator, and maybe if they felt like it they would give you one, but where they put you was their choice. And if they separated you once, chances were they wanted to keep you separated.  
  
He finally dragged his voice up from the depths of his throat like a rusty old bucket from a dry well. “Can—can Hayden change that?”  
  
Ethos wrapped his arms around him and petted his hair, and Deimos let his head loll against his shoulder. “He could try, but it’s not just his decision. And if we were to go back they’d probably take his command away anyway. You’ve seen what he’s like now.”  
  
Deimos needed to stab something, but they’d taken his knives as usual and who would he even stab? Hayden was too pathetic. Certainly not Ethos, who even while infected was holding him and kissing his forehead and had turned up the vents for him so he didn’t turn into a mindless slut. Maybe he should just stab himself once they gave him back his knives.  
  
“Hey. Deimos. Deimos, sweetie, look at me. It’ll be okay. I’ll make sure it’s okay.”  
  
“I don’t want to go back.”  
  
“You don’t have to.”  
  
“I don’t want to go back to medbay either. I want to stay with you.”  
  
Ethos held him extra tight. “You can do that if you want. You always have a place here, and I know Praxis would be thrilled to have you back—and so would I! But do you know what would be really helpful? If you stayed at medbay for a little while longer, and helped us by telling us what they’re planning and things like that. You know we’re just trying to help them too, and once we get to our new home there’ll be no reason for anyone to fight.”  
  
Deimos lifted his head, and after a moment he nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ethos you manipulative SOB. Who knew you had it in you?
> 
> There was originally going to be a chapter between the Hayden chapter and this one, in which Ethos seduces the ship's Colteron prisoner and releases her to infect her people, but I had to cut it for lack of time. It's now a separate story, Love Bug. 
> 
> "Utopia" is by Austra.


	7. The Kingdom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note--there's some discussion of suicidal ideation and death near the end of this chapter.

Athos and Perun jogged toward the hangar through the dim bloody light of the corridor. It had been a quiet patrol shift, but Athos was tired and looking forward to curling up in the cockpit of the Pharaon with a bowl of whatever soup was on that night. He usually wanted to be with people, but at the moment he was really craving some alone time.  
  
They were less than a hundred feet from the door when Perun suddenly hissed and clutched his shoulder. Athos whirled to look, but the sniper had ducked back around the corner. He pulled out the dart and grabbed Perun’s arm. “Come on! We can get there in time!” They sprinted for the door, Perun already stumbling and weaving.  
  
Athos banged on the door. “Smoke on the water! Smoke on the water!” _Where is Tawa anyway? He should be watching for us._ He smacked the access panel in frustration, and to his shock the door opened. _What the—? Oh well._ He dragged Perun inside; they promptly tripped over Tawa’s motionless form and tumbled to the floor.

He looked up to a grey haze full of indistinct forms, some moving about the room, some sprawled on the ground. Deimos loomed over him, pale eyes expressionless behind his respirator mask, and strode past to disappear through the door. Athos planted his feet in a crouch and tugged on Perun’s arm again, but he only grumbled and slumped back down. _I can’t believe they made tranq bombs. Why didn’t_ we _do that? I guess we just didn’t have enough tranqs in medbay to mess around with_.

A fighter he didn’t recognize broke through the fog, pointing a gun at him. “Shit, I’m outa cartridges. Do you have any, Encke?”

Athos was already on his feet and out the door, but he tripped on a foot that shouldn’t have been there and sprawled into a heap in the hallway.

“Sorry,” said Deimos, his small raspy voice sounding even stranger from inside the mask.  
  
Hands grabbed him from behind and hauled him up.  
  
“Don’t waste the tranqs, Ethos’ll probably want to see him since Selene’ll be out cold for a while.”  
  
“ _Deimos,_ ” he shouted—but Deimos was gone.

***

Athos’ mind wanted to turn the bridge into a scene from a lurid pulp movie: the dark smoky lair of a decadent alien crime lord, complete with mysterious bounty hunters and tentacled dancing girls. In some ways it was, but it looked more like high school drama students going through an early street-clothes rehearsal. Ethos lounged casually in the captain's chair with his tablet, surrounded by black-clad fighters; a tall, strong-looking navigator knelt by his feet like a bikini-clad slave girl. Commander Hayden! At least he wasn’t actually wearing a bikini. Deimos slouched against the wall, mask still on, tapping a tranq gun against his thigh. The terminals were clustered with navigators; some were busily working, but most were at least sneaking glances his way.

“Athos!” Ethos swung out of his chair. “It’s so good to see you! It’s been a long time.” He picked his way through the crowd, Hayden tagging after him like a puppy, and stopped before Athos. “Do you want a hug? No? Okay. Sure you don’t want to take off your mask? I turned the vents up.”  
  
Ethos looked so _normal_. He would have sounded normal, too, if you didn’t know that this wasn’t the way he usually sounded. Used to sound.

“Anyway, I just wanted to welcome you to our side—”  
  
“What makes you think I’m on your side?” Athos was almost surprised at how angry he was. Why should he be angry at Ethos? He couldn’t help being that way. Maybe Ethos wasn't the person he was really mad at.

“Come on, you know we’re all on the same side. But I actually just meant welcome to our...physical territory. You won’t be here for too long—I mean you will, it’s just that pretty soon no one will be locked up, because we won’t be fighting anymore.”

Athos froze. “Did you find a way to mutate the virus?”  
  
“There’s no virus,” Ethos explained patiently. “What I meant is that we’ll be there soon, and then you guys won’t have any reason to fight us.”  
   
“Where will we be?”  
  
He smiled, an irreproachable angel with a halo of soft bright curls. “You’ll find out.”  
  
“That’s not ominous at _all_.”  
  
“I know, it sounds creepy, doesn’t it? Don’t worry, we’ll be fine.”  
  
Athos sighed. “So are you going to throw me in the dungeon now or what? I’m tired.”

“Well, to be honest, our uh….dungeons, as you call them…are a little crowded right now, since Deimos just helped us bring in everyone from the medbay and mess hall, and now we’ve got people coming in from the hangar too. Some of the fighters are moving stuff around now so we can accommodate our new guests. I hope that once we find a place for you, you can help calm down your people once they wake up—I hear Selene got a double dose of tranqs, so I think you’re their leader for the moment.”

Athos turned to Deimos. “What would make you _do_ something like this? Are you crazy?”  
  
Deimos looked away for a second, then shrugged.  
  
“He just—” Ethos began.

“I’m talking to _Deimos_ ,” Athos snapped. Faces turned to stare, and a hush fell over the room. “Seriously! What is _wrong_ with you? Did they somehow find a way to infect you? In that case I’m sorry but I really doubt that’s what it is, because if it were Ethos would have mentioned it in his monologue.”

“Monologue! I like that. It sounds fun. I should have prepared a monologue. Should I grow a long mustache to twirl, too?”

“No!” he shouted. “It would look terrible and you know it. Although it is your face so I have no right to tell you what to do with it. Just like _you,_ ” he pointed at Deimos, “had no right to betray all of us for—for whatever it is they have over here! Praxis? Extra knives?”

Deimos looked away again.  
  
“You know they’re going to kill us all, right? You KNOW that.”  
  
Deimos hesitated, and finally nodded.  
  
“You KNEW that and you still did it? WHY?”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Athos could barely hear him. Deimos (probably sensing this) slunk over and Ethos draped an arm over his shoulders. “What do I have to go back to? What do any of us have to go back to? Who gets on a ship like this if they don’t want to die? At least this way I can die with friends.”

“I thought _I_ was your friend! I don’t want to die!” Athos was actually about to cry. He hadn’t cried since his grandmother died.

“You are my friend. If you want to be.”  
  
“Well I _don’t!_ I don’t want to be friends with anyone who’s willing to KILL me just because they’re in some dumb emo funk! _They_ all have an excuse, they’re brainwashed by some zombie bug, but you—you’re just— _selfish!_ ”

“He is not!” Ethos pulled Deimos closer and stroked his arm. “He just has different priorities than you do.”

“Oh yeah? And what _are_ those priorities? What makes them great enough that you’re willing to kill Praxis for them? And Ethos, and everyone else? Do you really understand that they’re both going to die because of what you did? Ethos is going to die and Praxis is going to die. They will _stop breathing_. Their bodies will get cold and they won’t answer when you speak to them. They won’t move when you touch them. You’ll see their bodies and think you understand what happened and then the next day you’ll turn around to say something to them and they’re not there and they’ll never be there again! And then their smell that was in their clothes fades and you start to forget their face and even if you look at a picture of them and memorize it, all you’ll really be memorizing is that picture.

“I’ve seen this happen, I know what it’s like. Even if you want that for yourself, is that what you want for them? Don’t you want to be with them? They want to be with _you_. All Ethos ever talked about before the infection was you. Even now that he’s infected he’s still obsessed with you. Oh by the way, did you really think we didn’t know you were sneaking off? All the people we caught recently told us that they saw you here. You think I didn’t want to sneak off to see—um, someone? Even if he didn’t notice me? My own _navigator_ barely even notices me.”

Deimos was a statue. His eyes were chips of ice, unmoving. Ethos let go of him and stepped forward. “Who did you want to go see?”

“No one! None of your business!”

“Are you sure?” Ethos reached up and slowly pulled down Athos’ mask. His face was burning and he couldn’t figure out why he didn’t at least _try_ to resist. “I never got to thank you for throwing me that birthday party, by the way. It was a lot of fun.”

“Um. Thanks,” he stammered. “I mean, you’re welcome. I mean—NO. I wish I’d never done it!”  
  
Ethos leaned closer. “Why not?”  
  
“Because everything went wrong! You were just supposed to feel better about yourself—you weren’t supposed to—”  
  
“Kiss other people?”

“NO! I mean, of _course_ you were supposed to do that. Obviously. Look, I refuse to talk about this with you when you have a mind control bug in your brain. It’s too weird.” Where had Deimos gone? He couldn’t even be bothered to stick around? Jeez.

“Is there something else you’d rather be doing?”

Ethos’ lips hovered inches away from his own, tender and supple and slightly parted, and Athos could feel himself drifting toward them. He jerked his face away and jammed his mask back on.  
                    
“Aww.”

“Ethos, please. If you’re still in there, somewhere—you have to fight this.”  
  
“Athos, you’re really not making sense,” he chided gently. “What is there to fight? My own blood? My spleen?”  
  
“Your _impending doom?”_

Ethos shook his head, smiling, and opened his mouth to speak—but something flew past to land with a clatter at his feet, and a cloud of pale smoke bloomed around him. “Get down! Get to the door!” he shouted. Hayden flattened himself to the floor, nearly trampled in the stampede of thrashing boots. “No, Hayden, don’t—ugh. Encke, with me! One by one, guys! No crushing!” He charged off, and Encke let go of Athos’ shoulders and bolted after him. _He could’ve taken my mask,_ Athos thought. _He should have_.

The wave of confused bodies crashed against the door and rebounded. “Iss locked froma outside!” someone shouted, his voice already slurring.  
  
“We need to reprogram it,” Ethos called, crouching down. “Someone get to a terminal. Abel, you’re closest!”

Abel staggered back toward the consoles, and Athos grabbed him around the waist, pinning his arms and dragging him off to the side. He could hear muffled shouts and the pounding of multiple feet in the hall outside.  
  
“Porthos!”

Athos shoved Abel down and sprinted over to topple his gigantic but slow-moving navigator with an exuberant flying tackle. It was supremely satisfying considering the number of times Porthos had lifted him up over his head and spun him around “as a joke,” and he probably used a little more force than he needed to. Porthos struggled to get back up again, but Athos scrambled forward and sat on his back, yanking his elbows out from under him and pushing his shoulders down to the floor. He stuck his foot out to the side to trip Bazin, who was lurching forward so drunkenly that he probably couldn’t have made much sense of a terminal anyway.

Ethos barreled towards them at what should be an impossible speed, stooping low and holding his collar up over his mouth and nose, and Athos launched himself up to meet him. Ethos feinted to the right, then dodged to the left; Athos threw himself at his target from the side and brought him down in a tangle of flailing limbs.

“Are you okay? You didn’t hit your head, did you?” He could feel Ethos’ entire body stretched out under his own; their faces would almost be touching if it weren’t for the mask. Could this be any more awkward? 

Ethos laughed for a little too long. “I’m fine. How about you?”

“I’m okay. A lot better now, actually.”

“Really! And here I thought you didn’t want to flirt.”

“I didn’t mean it like _that!_ I mean—because we’re winning now.”

Ethos turned his face toward the door, which was rapidly acquiring a heap of bodies at its foot. “So you are," he sighed. His words and movements were slowing down. "I guess Deimos changed his mind after all.”

Athos let out a sharp huff of breath before he could stop himself.

“Don’t be too mad at him. I kinda…” Ethos turned back to face Athos with glacial slowness. His eyelids sank, and he blinked hard. “I kinda…lied to him. To get him over here. ‘M really terrible.”

Athos stroked his cheek. “No, you’re not. You’re just perfect.”  
  
Ethos smiled, and his eyes drifted shut again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finish this chapter and put it up here in draft form, and then what happens just a couple hours later? Hamlet puts out a Star Wars crossover. 
> 
> My deepest apologies to Ethos for positioning him as Jabba in this metaphor--it was just too funny to pass up. And my somehow even deeper apologies to Princess Leia for putting Hayden in her role. Then again, maybe it's actually Deimos who represents her? Hayden can be Salacious Crumb, I guess. :D
> 
> "The Kingdom" is by Jesca Hoop.


	8. Little Secrets

Ethos opened his eyes to the sterile frosted glow of the medbay lights, and knew it was over. The entire glorious future, the vivid and sustaining present, the deep effortless bond with his people—all were slowly dying in his veins. Probably no one would ever forgive him. They were almost certainly going to court-martial him. Strangely, he felt okay about it.  
  
He could still feel Praxis on the bed to his left, and Abel on the bed to his right, sleeping in peaceful ignorance of the creeping reboot of their physiology. Ethos had never let on to anyone, but he knew. All the signs pointed to it, and he couldn’t erase what he’d seen and felt and thought. He knew, but he just didn’t care. Hadn’t cared? Did he care now? He wasn’t sure. Did he feel this way because the cure was starting to work, or because he’d been captured? He didn’t know.  
  
There was someone else nearby, too, someone leaning against the wall and ever-so-casually perusing his tablet. “Athos!” he called out, glad that his voice sounded more or less normal. The white noise of the air vents was probably helping.  
  
His visitor startled, then dragged an office chair over to sit next to him. “Ethos! Hi! How are you feeling?”  
  
Ethos tugged gently at his wrist restraints. “Confined. I didn’t know you were into bondage.”  
  
Athos covered his face with one hand. “ _Omigod_ , Ethos. Please.”  
  
“Sorry. Well, I’m not that sorry _yet_ , but I’m sure I will be soon. How long does it take, by the way?”  
  
“Depends on the person—usually a few days at least. Seacole says you might take longer, though, because you had the—I forget how he said it. The first infection, basically. The one that controls the others.” His eyes widened. “Wait, you’re admitting you’re infected?”  
  
“One bug to rule them all, one bug to find them, one bug to bring them all and in the darkness bind them,” Ethos intoned, then cracked up at the expression on Athos’ face.    
  
“Okay, you are kind of funny when you’re evil.”  
  
“Appreciate it while you can, soon I’ll be back to my boring unfunny self again.”  
  
“You are not boring! You’re never boring.”  
  
“Even when I rant about xenolinguistics?”  
  
“That’s not boring, I just don’t understand it.”  
  
“Good. You’ve just signed away any and all excuses not to listen to it. I’ll expect you in my jail cell at 09:00 sharp every morning, ready to take notes.”  
  
“I really don’t think they’re going to throw you in jail. I mean, they’d have to throw half the crew in with you.”  
  
“Maybe not til we get back. But after that…”  
  
Athos laid a hand on top of Ethos’. “Don’t worry. We’ll figure something out once Hayden’s cured. I promise.”  
  
Ethos winced internally. “How’s he doing, by the way?”  
  
“He got some bruises back there in the stampede, but he’s okay. Kind of quiet though.”  
  
“And how long have I been in here?”  
  
“About 18 hours. I think someone pumped you up with tranqs just to make sure after I opened the door. You’re still up before Selene though.”  
  
Ethos smiled. “Well, that’s something. Wait, why are Praxis and Abel still asleep then?”  
  
“They’re, uh…still giving you all tranqs while you’re recovering. A normal amount, not a knockout amount. I guess they didn’t want everyone constantly fighting and kicking.”  
  
“Ah, okay. That would probably explain why nothing matters right now.” He glanced down; Athos was absentmindedly stroking the back of his hand.  
  
Athos caught his look and snatched the hand away. “So! I know you’re not allowed to have electronics or pens or anything like that, but I was wondering if you’d like to play a game?”  
  
“Oh my. What _kind_ of game?”  
  
“Not like _that!_ ” He was actually blushing. It was the cutest thing ever. “You know, word games or something. Or we could do personality quizzes.”  
  
“Oh, that would be interesting! I could take them now and then take them again once I’m, uh, not infected.” He still didn’t like the word ‘cured.’  
  
“Oh, so we can compare the results? That’s a cool idea!” Athos leaned back in his chair, and his nimble fingers skimmed over the tablet. Lucky tablet. _Oh god self what is your problem._ “Okay! I found one. Here we go.”  
  
***

Nearly a week later, Ethos was dejectedly allowing a med tech to feed him spoonfuls of lukewarm fake-cinnamon oatmeal when he looked up to see the MO standing over his bedside. “Congratulations, Ethos! We analyzed this morning’s blood sample and the virus is completely gone. You’re free to go.”

“Wow! Really?”  
  
The MO smiled. “Really. Actually you tested clear yesterday too—we just wanted to make absolutely sure.” He reached down and undid the wrist restraints, and Ethos rotated his shoulders a little before staring at his hands. He still didn’t quite trust them not to wander off and do something weird and alarming, even though all the alarming things they’d done before had been in perfect harmony with his equally alarming brain. He couldn’t stare at his own brain, though, so he just stared at his hands.

“So…um…what’s going to happen to me?” He knew Praxis and Deimos were free and okay, at least for the moment, because they had come back to visit him. Deimos had only come once, and stayed quiet the entire time, barely even meeting his eyes; it was clear that Praxis had pressured him into coming. Praxis apologized on his next visit; he said Deimos was ashamed and didn’t know what to say. Ethos, feeling the heavy burning weight of his own secret, had been a little relieved. He knew he was going to have to tell Deimos eventually, but he wanted to be wearing real clothes and standing on his own two feet when he did it.

“Not my business,” said the MO. “We have no orders to detain you. I’m sure if command has any special orders for you, they’ll be in your email. Your clothes and tablet are in the drawer there. Welcome back to human society.” He gave Ethos a dry grin and walked off.

The med tech shook his head and smiled ruefully. “You can take a shower first—that’s what I would want if I were you. Do you need anything before I go?”    
  
“No, thanks,” Ethos answered automatically. A shower sounded perfect, on more than one level.  
  
When he stepped back out, still drying his hair, Athos was slouched against the wall near his bed; his face lit up when he saw Ethos. Ethos imagined walking out in nothing but a towel, the way he’d normally do back in the bunk, and was fervently glad that he’d dressed in the bathroom. He was also glad Athos had never walked in when he was getting a sponge bath, but realistically that wouldn’t have happened because they put a curtain around you then.

“Hey! I heard you were getting out today. Do you have to do any more tests or anything?”  
  
“No, they said I can go. I just want to check my email first though, to see if I have any orders. You know.” Ethos made a face, and Athos nodded.  
  
He didn’t have time to read them yet, but it looked like there were a surprising number of get-well messages. And—yikes—an email from Commander Hayden. Ethos drew in a deep breath. “I have to go see him once I’m out.”  
  
Athos winced in sympathy. “Do you want me to go with you?”  
  
“I think I have to go in by myself, but it might help to have company on the way there.”  
  
“Okay! I’ll wait for you outside then.”  
  
“You don’t have to do that, you know.”  
  
“I know. I want to.”  
  
“Oh, um, okay. Thanks.” Ethos’ face felt hot. Probably just from the shower, right? He put his socks and boots on and picked up his tablet. 

They strode out into the hallway together, and Ethos braced for impact—he didn’t know what kind of impact, exactly. _Pitchforks and torches? That’s ridiculous. They don’t have those on the Kepler._ Nothing happened, though. The lights were back on, the posters were cleared away—those posters! they’d had so much fun making them—and the two or three people walking down the hall didn’t seem to take any notice of them. Eventually he did get a few startled or wary looks, and he was pretty sure those two maintenance techs were whispering about him after he walked by.

“Don’t worry,” Athos told him. “They’ll get used to you again soon.”  
  
“Did they know I was getting out today? How did you know?”  
  
“I didn’t. I got there and you weren’t in the bed, so I asked them what happened to you.”  
  
“Oh, okay. I guess there was no…secret email to everyone but me or anything.”  
  
Athos flung his arms wide. “Warning! The dreaded Ethos, lord of the bugs, shall break free from his prison at dawn and run rampant through these hallowed halls! Take cover! Lock up your children and livestock!”

Ethos couldn’t help laughing. After a couple more minutes they arrived at Hayden’s office, and he took another deep breath. “Okay, here goes nothing.”  
  
“You can do it.” Athos rested a reassuring hand on his back, and a light shiver ran through him. _Omigod self, can you focus for one fucking second._  
  
He forced himself to smile back, and resolutely knocked on the access panel.  
  
***  
  
Hayden was back behind his desk, his face as blank as a respirator mask. “Navigator,” he intoned.  
  
“Commander,” Ethos answered in a neutral tone.

Hayden’s eye twitched. “I’m going to propose a deal. I hope you will find it acceptable.” He sounded like he was trying to be sarcastic, but his eyes flickered downward as he said it.  
  
Wow! This was not what he’d expected. Ethos folded his hands and waited.  
  
“I will leave your name out of my official report of the incident, and you will receive no penalties. In return, you and your…friends will not attempt to contest any of the details in my report.”

“What details?” He hadn’t even meant to speak; the words just popped out.  
  
The newly-reinstated commander cleared his throat. “Nothing that need concern you.”

Ethos narrowed his eyes. “Are you going to tell them that _you_ led the resistance instead of Selene? Or that _you_ defeated our faction, instead of Deimos?”  
  
“My role in this was…complex. I will merely remind them of my…” Hayden winced under Ethos’ gaze. “Fine. Yes. I’m going to tell them that.”

“That doesn’t seem fair. Selene worked really hard to bring me down, and he and Seacole developed the cure. And we’d probably still be on our way to who knows where if Deimos hadn’t tranq-bombed our camp and let the prisoners out. And of course Athos persuaded him to do it.”

Hayden’s nostrils flared like a horse’s. Ethos had actually ridden him around like a horse once, in one of his more whimsical moods. “If you insist. I will allot…positive roles to them.”

“I think you should also mention the sample. I mean, I heard them talking when I was in medbay, and they said if I hadn’t brought back that sample, they wouldn’t have been able to analyze how the virus adapts itself to different species and figure out how to make the cure. Or at least it would have taken them a lot longer, and by then the virus might have figured out a way to mutate enough to infect immune people.”  
  
“Fine. I will mention your role in obtaining the sample.”

“Oh, it’s not really about my role. You don’t even have to mention me. It’s more about recognizing the importance of scientific investigation.”  
  
Hayden closed his eyes and inhaled. “Noted. Is that all?”  
  
“Well, just to be sure—you’re not going to pick anyone else to blame for this, are you?”  
  
“Not anyone you—fine, I won’t.”  
  
Ethos considered. “That sounds all right. I want a copy of whatever you send, though.”  
  
“You will have it. Do we have a deal?”  
  
“We do!” He extended his hand across the desk, and Hayden took it with wooden reluctance. “Okay. I guess I should be going then.”

“Indeed.”  
  
He paused at the doorway. “Nice talking with you…sir.”  
  
Hayden flinched.  
  
Ethos gave him a smile and a wink, then strolled out.  
  
***

Athos jumped up. “How’d it go?”  
  
“It was fine. Pretty great, actually. He wants to cover his own ass and he’s willing to cover ours along with it. I mean, those of us who need it. Your ass doesn’t need covering, of course.”  
  
Athos’ mouth opened, but no words came out.  
  
“I mean—you know what I mean!”  
  
“Yeah! Yeah, of course. That’s great! Do you want to, um, go get lunch to celebrate?”  
  
!!! “It’s barely 09:00.”

“Oh, uh—second breakfast, then?”  
  
Ethos smiled ruefully. “I should actually go see Praxis and Deimos—you know, let them know I’m out of medbay. I feel like we need to have a talk.”  
  
“Oh, cool. Well…I _hope_ it’s cool, you know, I hope it goes well. Good luck.”

“Thanks! Do you want to have lunch at the normal time, though?”  
  
He brightened. “Yeah! That sounds great! So, uh—do you want me to walk you back to your room?”  
  
“Sure!” Ethos gathered up his courage—it was a lot easier now!—and slipped his hand into Athos’.

Athos drew in a sharp breath, then smiled. Their walk back was suspiciously slow.  
  
When they arrived, Ethos hovered by the door, turning to face him. He couldn’t quite bring himself to let go of Athos’ hand. “I—um—I just wanted to say thank you. For, you know, visiting me in medbay all those times. And...standing up to me and stuff, and saving us all. It was getting kind of boring having everyone obey me all the time.”  
  
They laughed, the awkward, eyes-downcast kind of laugh, and Athos drifted a little nearer. “That sounds terrible. I’m glad I could help.”

Ethos swallowed. He had nothing left to say, at least not with words.  
  
“This might be a bad time, but…” Athos was just a few inches away now. “Can I, um—can I kiss y—”  
  
Ethos cut him off before he could finish. Athos’ hands rose tentatively to his back, settled, then pulled him closer with sudden fierceness. Ethos moaned without thinking and pushed him up against the wall; they clung and struggled, trying to find their lost breath in each other’s mouths.  
  
A quiet gasp from off to the side startled them apart. Bazin was staring at them openmouthed, clutching his tablet to his chest as if it could protect him from what he clearly thought was a second outbreak. He stared into the headlights of Ethos’ gaze for three anguished seconds, then turned tail and ran.  
  
They rested their foreheads together, laughing, and then Ethos reluctantly pulled away. “Okay. Here I go.”  
  
Athos pressed another quick kiss to his lips. Well, maybe not that quick. “Good luck.”  
  
Ethos stroked his hair and smiled. “I’ll be fine.” He turned and opened the door, stepping into the alien future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....and then walked in on some hot & heavy praxmos and had to turn around and walk back out again. Just kidding, they weren't actually at home. Just kidding, they were totally there playing hookey from PT, but in a sober, chaste way. :D
> 
> Did you know this is (iirc) only the second fic on AO3 with an Athos pairing? Criminal! Maybe it's because he's portrayed as such a dopey dudebro in Eclipse. I feel like that's heavily influenced by Helios' somewhat impatient point of view, though, so I decided to make him a little more (hopefully) serious and plausible. Athos is interesting to me because he seems so cheerful and confident on the surface, but if you look more closely you can see signs of anxiety and uncertainty.
> 
> I actually didn't know when I started out who Ethos was going to end up with (if anyone)...originally the reason Athos planned the party was because he seemed to be the most extroverted person we know on the Kepler, and therefore the most likely to a) take an interest in a shy person's social development and b) like parties. 
> 
> Later I decided Ethos needed to end up with someone who he'd never kissed or had sex with while he was infected, because I didn't want him to start a relationship already encumbered with that kind of baggage; I also wanted him to be with someone who was respectful but would also stand up to him. Because of the pheromones, resisting him would be nearly impossible for anyone who wasn't immune or at least forewarned and determined, and still really really difficult for anyone who was. I'd already decided who was going to be immune, so logically it had to be either Athos or Deimos (there were a few other immune people but none of them are pre-existing named characters), and Deimos was too wrapped up in Praxis to give Ethos the attention he needed. I'm not ruling out some eventual poly thing where Ethos and Deimos stay in their couples but also date each other (and heck, who knows if Ethos and Athos will even stay together), but right now they all have too many issues to work out. Also, Deimos and Athos look vaguely similar, so that would imply that Ethos has a physical type.
> 
> I've decided that their ship name is Aethos--or, if you want to go the Pokemon route, blabbermouthshipping. :D
> 
> "Little Secrets" is by Passion Pit.


End file.
